


More Perfect

by MostDismalFeldsparkle (Most_Dismal_Feldsparkle)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Most_Dismal_Feldsparkle/pseuds/MostDismalFeldsparkle
Summary: Every night, huddled in whatever doorway, tunnel, or bench he had found, his reluctantly-sentient shopping-trolley standing guard, Aziraphale had the same dream. He did not dream of shooting the boy, Adam, the only thing he knew about  himself,  his only memory apart from his name. Although that thought  haunted his days, it never bothered him at night.At night, he dreamed of a garden.He stood on some sort of rise, overlooking the garden, lush and green, in a dry and arid place.The sight only made him sad.It began to rain, and the rain was somehow strange and new.Beside him was a fire, a star serpent, a candle.Aziraphale unfurled a beautiful, white umbrella to protect the flame from the rain.And then he woke to the cold.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 320
Kudos: 407





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content advisory: Sleeping rough, homophobia

Aziraphale rummaged through his shopping trolley. The night had turned cold, and he was certain that there was a blanket in there somewhere.

There were a _great many things_ in the shopping trolley. Rather, in fact, TOO MANY things. The trolley should have been full to overflowing, about three or four hundred _things_ ago, but the trolley felt a vague sense of unease about overflowing on its new owner. 

The trolley, in fact, didn’t know what to make of its new owner, at all. It only knew that disappointing its owner, by overflowing, was _unthinkable_. 

That it was pretty sure it had been missing a wheel when its owner found it, and then it suddenly.....hadn’t been. 

That it was in fact a shopping trolley and shouldn’t actually have any thoughts at all, and that this whole thing was worrying in a vaguely existential way.

The shopping trolley decided to not think about it, and to concentrate on not overflowing.

“There you are, dear boy,” he said when he found it. It was ugly and soiled, yes. But it was clean soil. Only dirt, and some engine grease. And it was warm.

The boy eyed him suspiciously. “Well, I’m not gobbing you for it.”

“No, of course you aren’t,” Aziraphale replied patiently. “I don’t want any such thing. Just take it.”

The boy hesitated, shifted his weight and then snatched the blanket from Aziraphales yielding hands and bolted.

“At least he’ll be warm, poor dear...” Aziraphale mused to himself as the sound of running footsteps faded away. “So young to be out here...”

“You’ll miss that blanket,” a gravelly voice replied. “And you’re lucky he didn’t stab you.”

It seemed that Aziraphale would be sharing the alley this evening.

“I’m Aziraphale,” he announced to the voice, an elderly man with three scarves, cut off gloves, and a small dog. His own name was one of only two facts that Aziraphale knew about himself. 

“Aziraphale, did you say? Well ain’t that a name-and-a half?” the stranger muttered back. “Bet you got pummelled in the school yard for that one. In fact, I oughta pummel you myself for good measure. And I will, if you put your fairy hands on me.”

“Actually, I had a very happy childhood,” Aziraphale replied. He had no idea if that was true. He could recall nothing about his childhood at all. But, presumably, he WOULD remember an unhappy childhood, and so he chose to assume it had been happy. Perhaps a lie, but surely a harmless one. “And I’m quite happy to find another place to sleep, if I make you uncomfortable, although I’ve no intention of harming you. You were here first, after all, and you have your sweet pup to care for.”

The man grunted. “As long as you don’t touch me, I’ve got no problem with you. If you stay over there, then, you can... stay over there.” He rolled over then. The little dog whined and nuzzled into his coat.

Aziraphale ran mentally through the inventory of his cart, trying to think if he had anything that would make life nicer for a skinny, little dog, but he had not been collecting things with little dogs in mind. That changed _now,_ though. From now on, the protection of skinny, little dogs would own a part of his mind. There was an awful lot of real estate to fill in there, after all. The giant blackness. 

He tried not to wonder too much about who he might have been, apart from Aziraphale. The only OTHER fact he knew was so _awful_ , after all. 

His name was Aziraphale, and he had once shot to kill an eleven year old boy called Adam Young, at Tadfield Airbase.

And that was all there was.

* * *

Crowley was in Anatolia.... no wait... Asia Minor... no... _whatzit..._ Turkey.

Probably Turkey. Unless they’d changed the name of it, again. He could barely be bothered to keep track of such things at the best of times, when he had nothing better to do.

And he did have something better to do.

His fucking soul-mate had vanished off the face of the earth. And the scalp of heaven. And the fucking ass-crack of hell. 

But Aziraphale had to be _somewhere_. Immortal beings did not just pop out of existence, which meant that Aziraphale was _somewhere_. And, until that somewhere was literally “in Crowley’s arms”, well, until then, Crowley could never stop looking.

Unless they killed him... his mind supplied helpfully. All it would have taken was for one of those arch-angels to decide hellfire was worth a second go and...

Crowley flinched from the mental picture his brain helpfully supplied. He’d read, somewhere, that some of the humans didn’t have an imagination, like that. Couldn’t picture the only bright spark in their whole damn existence, screaming in agony as their flesh melted.

_Lucky bastards._

And, anyway... if heaven had killed him, they’d _gloat_ , wouldn’t they? Champion gloaters, the archangels. It was their favourite activity, after being smug. 

And, they weren’t gloating. And also, Hell wasnt coming after him to give holy-water a second go, and also, if Aziraphale _was_ gone forever, then Crowley was _done_. Eternally, finally, done with this whole damn business.

And so, Aziraphale wasn’t dead.

Crowley had searched Mesopotamia, he’d scoured the Levant. Their old stomping grounds. It ground Crowley’s teeth, how much things had changed. How sometimes some whisper of the ancient world would be still standing, and Crowley would see it, recognize where he stood, and the whole agedness of human society, their _destructiveness_ , would punch him in the gut. He’d howled in Petra. Howled at the archeologists digging for history, the history they’d abandoned, burned, let crumble to dust. Now they wanted it. _Now!_ Wasteful fools now digging through the soil and sand.

_Aziraphale. Where are you? Where are your wings that sheltered me as rain pummeled Eden? Where are your blue eyes, your soft hands? Your stupid tea-drinking, tweed-wearing, English-drizzle-loving self?_

Aziraphale had to be somewhere _significant_. Somewhere they had met before. He had to meet Crowley half way Because if he wasn’t...if he didn’t... then Crowley would never find him.

But, Crowley was _looking for him._

And, he, Crowley, would keep looking for Aziraphale, forever. While rocks still existed, Crowley would look under them. While walls stood that might be between them, Crowley would tear them down. When the sun ate itself, and withered into wandering protons, Crowley would sift though those protons, in the dark, with his bare hands.

Until he found him. He’d never stop.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale and the trolley trudged dejectedly along The Strand, toward Trafalgar Square.

They were coming from the police station, where one of Aziraphale’s sporadic, but frequent attempts to confess to murder had gone about as well as usual.

Perhaps a little _worse_ than usual, given that it had been some poor, junior constable’s first day, and someone senior had decided that some hazing had been in order. The poor girl had seemed quite het up at the prospect of solving a child-murder on her first day, and had turned angry at Aziraphale when the whole thing collapsed in a swell of her colleagues’ laughter.

She had, in fact, threatened to arrest Aziraphale for wasting police time, and when he’d observed that, while not an arrest for murder, that was probably better than nothing, she’d only got angrier.

Eventually, however, a senior desk officer had taken pity on him and called the new girl off. He’d then smoothed things over by offering to fill Aziraphale’s thermos with hot water from the break room, and had even lifted a few sachets of cup-a-noodles.

More importantly, though, the desk officer had agreed to let Aziraphale use the scissors and hole punch, at the desk, to fashion a little dog-sized rain-coat out of tarpaulin, some hessian and a spool of braided twine.   
  


The weather was about to turn _cold_.

It did not take much trouble to find the man and little dog from the previous day. They were squatting just where they had been before, the same alley, just both a day older and a day thinner. Aziraphale offered over the coat, remarking only that it was about to turn chilly.

”You’re not telling me nothing my bones don’t know,” the man replied, grumpily. Still, he _did_ take the coat, turning it over, and rubbing it with his fingers, as if searching for unpleasantness or sharp edges.

Finding nothing of the sort, the man man grunted and carefully settled the coat on the pup’s shoulders, tying it patiently with shaking, knuckle-swollen fingers. The little creature objected at first, hackles rising with a low whine and a strange scent, but seemed he settle following Aziraphale’s plea and warning of the coming icy rain. Seemed to _listen,_ at least, to the odd, not-quite-a-man with his odd, not-quite-a-trolley, when he promised that the odd, not-quite-a-coat would do him some good. 

”Well it’s on, so off with you now,” the man said, not quite looking at Aziraphale, while the pup settled down at his feet. “I’ve put up with yeh for one night, so...”

Aziraphale sighed, resigned. He’d been hoping to at least learn the little dog’s name, even if not sure why. A little fact to store away with the recollection. Something _else_ , something _small_ , to remember.

It was not to be, however. “Quite right, I’ll be off. Pleasant day to you both.”   
  


The trolley allowed itself to shudder in its tracks, as they made their way... away. Just sort of generally away. As disagreeable as existential dread was, the mysterious owner, forlorn, was more objectionable still. Shopping trolleys did not understand _humans,_ or understand _dogs_ , but they knew something of _connection_. Of _purpose_ , and _place_. Or at least this trolley did. _And_ it knew brokenness, and abandonment in a strange place, all purpose lost. It did not _like_ these knowledges. It was not _built_ for empathy. It was built for soup cans.

Further along the road, Aziraphale stopped short at the sight of a lost cell phone, lying on the pavement. It looked, at first, to be cracked, but just as Aziraphale had time to hope that this impression was wrong, he found that it was _indeed_ intact. The crack seemingly vanishing under the caress of his fingers.

_Must be a trick of the light._

”Oh good,” Aziraphale murmured, softly. “Your owner _will_ be relieved. Now, we have only to find them.”

It was a faint hope, but one never knew their luck, and so Aziraphale tried a number at random - 9494- and the phone unlocked.

  
He was about to search for a stored address, or a likely contact, when on impulse he opened a browser and typed ‘Adam Young, Tadfield’.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, probably something along the lines of a missing person’s website, something lovingly managed by desperate parents, full of photos and of slowly diminishing hope. Decked out with well-wishes and virtual candles.

  
What he was _not expecting_ was Adam Young’s Instagram account.

  
“It’s a trick,” Aziraphale murmured to the trolley, “it must be”.

The trolley didn’t reply, deciding that now was not the time to develop an opinion on deep-fake technology, nor, indeed, to develop vocal cords. Frankly, somehow acquiring a language-processing- centre was, already, _many an aisle too far._

“A trick,” Aziraphale repeated. “It _must be_.”

  
_(it must be a trick of the light)_

He flicked through photo after photo. The boy was older, yes, but it was definitely _him_. Same quiet, deep set eyes, same floppy hair. Here, with a little black and white dog with a blue name tag, here again, with a girl, about his age, a girl with a stoic expression, and dark, spiraling hair.

  
Aziraphale sank to the pavement, still scrolling. A football game; a camping trip; between two smiling, middle-aged parents, each wearing ostentatious party-hats, with 18 printed on them.

_  
18_.

  
He scrolled faster and faster, looking for signs of ill health, scarring, disability. Anything to suggest being shot at close range seven years before.

  
He scrolled further and further, but it only got worse, the face only closer to the one in his memory. His _ONLY_ memory. The life being documented only _more_ childlike and carefree.

Aziraphale knew exactly two things about himself.   
  


And, apparently, one of them was _wrong_.

”You should be happy, you should be happy,” he repeated over an over.

  
and, he should be....

.... he _was_...

...but...

But, the universe had just twisted, violently, on some hither-to-unknown axis, and...

”Oy! You! No loitering! A homeless outside scares off customers. It’s bad for business! Shoo! Go on! ”

  
“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, pulled out of his strange dismay by everyday cruelty. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go, now.”

  
He _did_ go. However astonishing, these photos were, whatever it meant, this was not his phone, not his data, he was using.

If maybe - just maybe- he was not a murderer after all, he was certainly a thief. And he should know better. Probably. Probably someone raised him better than that. Probably.

Aziraphale doggedly closed the browser, and opened the mapping app. He tried first ‘current location to home’ and, failing that, ‘current location to work’. This latter plotted a route to an office nearby, in Covent Garden. 

But, even with the browser closed, the photos flickered through his mind. Adam Young outside the cinema. Adam Young at Blackpool. Adam Young at a football match.   
  


Adam Young _NOT_ decomposing, in a shallow grave that Aziraphale had never been able to remember digging.   
  
  


( _trick of THE LIGHT_ )  
  


Aziraphale started to sob, and the shopping trolley’s wheels began to squeak sympathetically.

He must have been a fright, by the time he arrived at his destination, because the receptionist at the relevant Covent Garden office building screwed up her nose at the very sight on him, trundling into her atrium, trolley and all.

”Oh, excuse me, dear,” he began. “I found this phone in the street. I think it might belong to someone who works here.”

The woman’s chin pulled back into her neck as Aziraphale held out the phone, while her nose continued its attempt to scrunch in on itself.

”Just leave it there, thanks,” she said. “I’ll send out an email.”

”I’m afraid I used a bit of data,” Aziraphale added.

He never had much money. What little amounts he found, and was given, were generally quickly spent on some little thing or other that someone needed, and that couldn’t be found in the trolley.

  
But, he did have a few coins on him, now. And so he scraped them out of his pocket and placed them down, with the phone, on the desk.

”Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” the receptionist muttered, from the back of her throat. “You’ll be on your way, then?”

Aziraphale sighed, collected his trolley and headed back toward the street.

He turned at the door, in time to see the receptionist drop the phone, held between her thumb and forefinger into a desk drawer. She then plucked a tissue, and used it to protect her hand, as she swept the little pile of coins into the rubbish bin beside the desk.

They might have bought someone a bowl of soup, or some chips.

”People are being just exhausting today, aren’t they?” Aziraphale exclaimed to the trolley softly. “And, this thing with Adam Young of Tadfield...I don’t know what to _do_ , or even what to _think_ , I...”

The trolley shivered, and the great blackness, in Aziraphale’s mind, pulsed in time with his heart.

“Do you mind if we go to the park?” Aziraphale asked, then, of the trolley. “The ducks? I like it there...”

The trolley did _not_ like it there.

It wasn’t the ducks. The trolley was largely indifferent on the topic of ducks, although these ones would be more alive and feathery than the sort trolleys typically dealt with.

No. Not the ducks. It was... the terrain. The terrain at the park did all sorts of _things_ tothe trolley. The trolley was designed for linoleum, or at worst, asphalt. The park was something else, entirely. And, it was _alarming_ to suddenly develop tyres and double wishbone suspension.   
  


Still, what was it _supposed_ to say? Especially, what was it supposed to say without vocal cords, which were, as previously discussed, _quite_ out of the question.

  
And so, they set off.  
  


The trolley even managed to contain some frozen peas, which it definitely hadn’t contained a minute ago, allowing Aziraphale to feed the ducks, while he thought.

  
Thought about the pictures...

_( a TRICK!)_

  
Adam Young, Alive.

_( the LIGHT!_ )

”What does it _mean_ that he’s alive?” Aziraphale asked, and, increasingly frantic, flung a hand full of peas, and prodded hard, at the great darkness in his mind.

The darkness prodded back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Advisory: Sex work, alcohol use

“I heard you were looking for someone.”  
  


The man was handsome, in a low key, delicate way, shoulders carefully sculpted, his accent poorly-masked Dublin Irish. He somehow matched the decor of the hotel bar, his clothes had the same sheen as the mahogany wood, his eyes the same colour as this whisky.   
  


“A _particular_ someone, I’m afraid,” Crowley replied, with what he hoped was a kind smile. None of this was this man’s fault, he was just trying to get by, far from home.

  
“Are you sure? I can be _anyone_ you want me to be.”

  
Crowley doubted it, given that the poor kid wasn’t even managing not-Irish, whyever he’d even decided to try for it. Still, nothing wrong with a bit of confidence. No reason to crush it.

“A _very particular_ someone, I’m afraid,” Crowley answered, this time with a mock-wistful sigh. “I’m afraid, I’m in love. With a very specific, very literal, Angel.”

The man pulled an expression of mock-disgust. “Ugh... what a predicament”

Crowley laughed into his drink, swirling it with his left hand, releasing the aroma of heather, and of peat, from half the world away. “Oh, you have no idea. Actually, not to be rude, but you couldn’t even possibly know what I _mean_ by in love. Not that humans don’t love. Not that their love is _lesser_ , even. It’s just not the same. And you can’t understand. I’m basically a bristlecone pine, talking to a mayfly, here.”

“Oh, you aren’t _that_ old,” the man purred.   
  


Crowley laughed. “Actually, I’m _older_. I am sixty-hundred years old, give or take. That’s six thousand, in sober language. I’m _ancient_.”

“You’re _sexy_.”

Crowley shook his head. “And, _you’re_ a very persistent salesman. Look... I don’t want to be rude enough to convince you to not waste your time, but, I don’t really want to deal with you getting pissed at me for wasting your time in ten more minutes. So... here...” Crowley reached into his pocket, where a wad of local currency appeared, just in time for him to pull it out. “...No strings. Stay and talk... or don’t... but, it’s up to you.”

  
The man frowned down at the cash. “I don’t need your charity.”

Crowley hissed. “It’s not charity. It’s money. Completely different animal.”

The man’s mouth twisted in thought, but then he sighed. Relaxed. “You buying my drinks too?”

“Sure why not?” Crowley sighed. “I don’t care about money.”

The man laughed bitterly. “ Of course you do. Everyone cares about money. If you’ve got too much of it, go buy a half-million mosquito nets and save the world, or something.”

“I suppose I could,” Crowley agreed lightly. “‘Cept I work for the Lord of Flies. Not sure how they feel about _mosquitos_ , but it’s probably too close for monkey business, right?”

“So you work for Beelzebub, do you?” The man asked, signaling the bartender. “So, what sort of work would that be?.”

Crowley blinked, in mild surprise “So, you know of the Lord of Flies. A man of letters, are we?”

The man shrugged. “Sure, I read. But reading the classics doesn’t pay the bills. And, you changed the subject. What do you and Beelzebub do for a living? Oil? Law? Something lucrative... given the largesse. And not mosquito net magnates, obviously.”

“Not oil or law,” Crowley sighed. “Although I suppose I had associates in those fields. I guess... I was more of an.... urban planner? Roads and stuff...”

“Ahh... and past tense, I notice.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah... technically, I _don’t_ actually work for Beelzebub, anymore. Maybe I will go into mosquito nets, then! Fly paper....Bug zzzzappers.... fuck, I’m drunk. Anyway, currently..... what I do _currently_ is _look_. I think I mentioned, I am in love. Well... he’s gone missing, so I look. And yeah... that probably sounds creepy to you. Because you’re a mayfly. But... something’s happened to him. There’s something wrong. This isn’t just _you-go-too-fast-for-me_ on steroids. This is... this is... what you have to understand is, that this man, this daffy, soppy, feather-brain that I love...? He can’t reliably _order crepes_ without getting himself murdered. And, we had lunch at the Ritz, and we held each other when the world didn’t end. And then he just _disappeared_. And, I can’t find him. And, so, ‘ _I let my hair grow long for his sake and wander through the wilderness in the pelt of a lion’_ “

  
“Like Gilgamesh, you mean? But, Enkidu was _dead_ when he did.”

Crowley sighed. “Wow. You do know the classics. You two would get on. And, yes. _Enkidu_ was dead. But _Aziraphale_ is not.”

The man looked puzzled. “No... sorry. You’ve lost me on that one. Too obscure... more obscure than Gilgamesh anyway. Who is Aziraphale?”

Crowley smiled. “Ah! Aziraphale... how to explain... okay... so, think a heavenly fire-thief like Prometheus... only sort of passive aggressive, and... naff...”

“Not much of a hero archetype! Naff, passive-aggressive Prometheus!”

Crowley shook his head. “Oh, but you are _dead wrong_ , there. Naff, passive-aggressive Prometheus is the pinnacle of creation. You lot would have immediately become frozen lion-kibble if it wasn’t for naff, passive-aggressive Prometheus. And, I would have been... slightly sodden. And, sad! Slightly sodden, and sad and lonely.. and then, the world would have ended already. And, _don’t you forget it!”_

“I’ll try not to!”

They drank in silence for a while.

Then Crowley’s phone rang.

He checked it... just in case.

  
“It wasn’t him, was it?” the man said sympathetically. “The lost love of your fantastically long life?”

“No...” Crowley replied, still blinking at the screen incredulous. “It was, in fact, _The Antichrist_ , of all people. Well... former Antichrist. Sort of complicated. Can’t imagine what the fuck _he_ wants, but I’m sure it can wait. Seven years without a how’dy’do and he calls in the middle of a drunken breakdown? Nah... that’s definitely Tomorrow-Crowley’s problem...”

“Are you sure? I think Tomorrow-Crowley might have a bit of a hangover to deal with. Also, Beelzebub AND the Anti-Christ? Do you ever wonder if ALL your coworkers are evil, then, just maybe, you are in the wrong profession?”

“Trust me, Mayfly. I have been thinking that since your greatitty-great-great-great-grandfather, was a twinkle in your greatitty-great-great-great-great grandsomething’s eye. And, I’m out of the business, now. Told you. Now I look. I’m looking. I just have to... I just have to find... Do you think _I’M_ evil, mayfly?”

The man shook his head. “No. You seem pretty nice, for my money. My money being, the money you just gave me, and exactly two coins to rub together. Thanks for that, by the way. Truth was, I wasn’t feeling it, tonight. Another asshole, sweaty, ex-pat businessman? But, I needed the money. That’s why I was so pushy with you earlier. You looked... _bearable_.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Crowley sighed. “And actually, it’s a compliment I could use. I know I said before that I wasn’t being creepy. That I know that this literal Angel of mine is in trouble, somehow. That he didn’t just come to his fucking senses and... and _leave_ me. And, I am sure.... I’m like ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-almost-all-the-nines sure... _but_...”

“But, not quite _ALL_ the nines?”

Crowley stared at his drink. “Just _sometimes_. Just sometimes.... like tonight... I am not 100% sure.”

“I think you need some sleep, Mr Crowley. And to maybe call the Antichrist back in the morning, or lose his number, if you don’t want to. And, for what it’s worth... I think, if this literal Angel left you on purpose, then he’s a literal fool. The world is not full of rich, pretty men who are as nice as you seem to be. And trust me... I’ve looked! And, if you decide you want company before you sleep, well... you’ve already paid.”

Crowley stood up. “Going to have to pass on the company, Mayfly. But, I’m going to take your advice on the nap. A year or two ought to do it. Take care.”

  
He stumbled out of the hotel, then, seeking the fresh air.

  
He looked up into the night sky.

  
To Heaven, and all its monsters.

“I should have burned you all,” he whispered. “And, if I find out you’ve hurt him, I will.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content advisory: Brief reference to ichor and blood. Brief mention of pregnancy.

Adam hung up, with a pout, when he reached Crowley’s voicemail. There was still making your bed, and arguing on the internet, but, after those two things, the biggest waste of time in the universe was, apparently, leaving voicemails for Crowley.

It had started on his eighteenth birthday. His mum had been a big soppy mess- of course- practically a given, that, going on and on about how much she loved him and then... 

... she’d said something about how she’d loved him from the moment that she’d first felt him flutter in her uterus and then it had suddenly hit Adam, like a tonne of bricks, that THAT WASN’T HIM.

He loved his mum. She WAS his mum and she was an awesome mum, really... but someone had stolen her baby, and Adam had stolen her _from_ that baby. That baby had ended up - AT BEST- with some other, not-the-best-mum-in-the-universe. Probably one that was cool with kidnapping, or, at the very least, terminally incurious. And that was the _better_ case scenario. What if that baby was just... gone?

Someone had kidnapped his mum’s baby! His dad’s baby! His _brother_ , sort of! And this was very clearly unacceptable! Something had to be done! 

And, alright, it hadn’t seemed _terribly_ important at the airfield, when he was eleven. He’d just sort of sorted out who is Dad was and never mind the details. But, in his defense he’d had other things to worry about. Such as cranky Satan. And being the Antichrist. And a bunch of American soldiers, and the horseman and pissy Angel Gabriel, who was kind of a dick, and all sorts!

But, well, he was a _man_ now, and he had to at least find out what happened to that baby that his mother had loved so much, had whispered and sang to, had waited so patiently to meet... and had been stolen away.

And so... he’d called Crowley. Of the whole cast of characters that had turned up, Crowley seemed the best combination of “seems to know what is happening” and “seems disinclined to annihilate the planet”.

Technically, Adam didn’t have Crowley’s number. But... while it wasn’t like it had been when he was eleven, sometimes the universe still seemed inclined to do him the odd solid. Okay, so he was _technically_ human now, but the universe had a lot going on, and couldn’t be expected to get all the details right. At least not on the small stuff.  


Adam wasn’t _quite sure_ how it worked, it was never anything too big, or too dramatic, but sometimes, little stuff could happen like a new contact appearing in his phone.  


But texts did not deliver, and Crowley never picked up the phone. 

“It’s not _right_!” Adam exclaimed, grouchily. 

Arthur Young looked up from his newspaper. Yes, a still honest-to-god physical newspaper. Adam’s dad was the only person Adam knew, who still bought a physical newspaper, despite not having a parakeet. 

Adam _loved_ his dad, too. His dad that would be devastated to learn he’d had another son. One he’d never got to know.

“Err.... Venezuela?” Adam replied. He’d picked a country more or less at random, because he couldn’t exactly say, ‘ _It’s not right that chaotic-neutral demons, who kidnap your brother, don’t return your voicemails’._

“Hmm, yes... quite,” Arthur replied, vaguely.

Adam has the sense that they’d both just gotten away with something.

Okay. So, if Crowley wouldn’t call him back, what could he _do_?

Well, the obvious option was just to drop it, but... but, every time his mum had smiled at him since his birthday, Adam had got this sick, sinking feeling in his chest. 

Call _someone else_? Adam tried to think it through...

The witch, and the bloke she was dragging around, didn’t really seem to know what the heck was going on. And neither did the witch-finder. He didn’t even manage to find the witch.

The horsemen were largely vanquished and also... _trouble_. Adam didn’t want to accidentally _unleash_ anything, on the world.  


Unleashings were _bad_.

The Angel Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub were, frankly, shitheads. And, probably too pissed off with him. And probably boning, in Adam’s humble opinion.

And so that left the Medium and the Angel. The mysterious two for one.

_Aziraphale_...

Well, it was worth a shot.

Maybe, even if Angels did know less on the subject of antichrists and demonic energy... maybe, at least, they _answered their bloody messages!_

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Adam muttered to himself.

“I’d think what?” Arthur asked.

Adam was too ticked off to lie this time. “You’d think that Angels would return voicemails!”

“Err.... guess we could check with the vicar?”

“Yeah, thanks Dad. I’ll get on that” Adam muttered.

He concentrated, hard, but the universe seemed disinclined to give up Aziraphale’s phone number. Certainly no such number appeared in his contacts.  


Somehow, Adam got the impression that Aziraphale didn’t have a phone just now. He sort of wished for the universe to supply Aziraphale with a phone. Still, no contact.

“Okay,” Adam sighed. “ _Now what_?”

* * *

Aziraphale sighed. It had taken most of the day for a computer to open up at Charring Cross Public Library. Well, _actually_ computers had opened up regularly, but Aziraphale didn’t feel right about using one while actual rate-payers were waiting.

Shortly before closing, however, he was able to finally get a second look at Adam Young’s Instagram page.

He studied all the photos once more, using the better view provided by the monitor screen to check the photos again for bullet wound scars.

Still _nothing_.

Aziraphale blinked back tears. Since finding the phone, he’d interrogated that memory over and over. He’d replayed it quickly and slowly, obsessing over every detail of it, until _nothing_ made sense any more.  


Even the hands in the memory now looked nothing like his own hands.

There might have been a voice...

( _Shoot him, Aziraphale!_ )

And he...

But it was no use.

Aziraphale stared at the screen.

Slowly, he typed out a comment on Adam and three friends crammed into a frame with a football field in the background.

> Hello, dear boy. I do like this photo! What a clever use of depth of field! I hope you enjoyed the foot ball event. Now, something of an odd question, but, do you happen to recall if I might have shot you a little around seven years ago?
> 
> cheerio,
> 
> Aziraphale

But, of course that was _terrible_ , and so he didn’t post it, deleting it, slowly. One tap per letter.

The librarian seemed to take great glee in kicking him out at closing time.

His trolley was waiting outside, just where he had left it. 

It somehow contrived to appear very relieved to see him.

Aziraphale stroked the handle absently, only feeling the metal of a trigger beneath one finger.

His garden-dream had changed too, since finding the phone.  


At first, it was _nicer_. The candle flame, the one from the height above the garden, flickered around him, playfully. Warming him, never burning his fingers. It asked him for water. It asked him to dance. It’s every flicker brought Aziraphale joy.

Later, though... a new figure entered the dream. A purple-eyed street preacher, with a smile that ate itself. The preacher had flecks of something white on his fingers. White and fluffy, and stained with gold and with red. He licked his fingers and there was gold and red on his teeth.

Aziraphale _hated_ him. Hated his invasion into his dream. Hated how he’d chased away the dancing flame.

“Not sure I’m ready to settle down for the night,” he told the trolley. “Let’s do something else. No park and no cobbles...don’t worry. Let’s just walk.”

The trolley _liked_ walking, provided there was nowas no... terrain. And, it had missed its owner today. It had been forced to glower to avoid being stolen, several times. Expressing emotion was dangerous territory. It was aberrant to trolleyhood. What if it ended up developing actual features to express the emotion?! _Unthinkable_!!  


Walking was fine, though. Walking was almost _normal_. Streets could be aisles, buildings could be shelves. Little windows, and the people they held, stacked in shelf-buildings like products. It was, practically, window- shopping, which was practically shopping, which was practically _normal!_

Or, it _would_ have been normal...  
  


...But then, _a bird_ just had to get involved.

It was a large, black bird, that landed on the edge of the trolley’s basket and croaked at the owner.

Being a bird perch was _not_ a feature of trolleyhood. A perch for toddlers... yes. For teenagers with a death wish and limited imagination... yes.

But not.... _birds_.

Unfortunately, the owner _liked_ it.

“Oh, hello! What a pretty fellow you are,” Aziraphale cooed at the bird. “Are you a tower- raven? You’ve flown a fair way, haven’t you, given they’ve clipped your wings? ... always felt rather like _cheating_ , that, trimming their wings...”

The bird then spread its wings, as if to fly away, when...

“No! Wait!” Aziraphale shouted, because the sight of the outspread, black wings, had punched him in the chest, in a way he couldn’t ever recall happening before.

His voice reverberated strangely, seeming to just faintly shudder reality, and the bird froze, its feet still glued to the trolley, its wings outspread.  


  
A strange awareness settled in the raven’s eyes.

The trolley shuddered. Now the damn bird didn’t even have the good grace to stay just a bird.  Things were getting worse!

Aziraphale didn’t notice the raven’s eyes, however. He could only stare at the wings. They echoed, larger, in his mind, man-sized. And he wanted to.... smell them? Smooth the worried vanes with his fingers, aligning every tendril. To nestle his face into their softness.

There was something about them. Something beautiful. Something important. More important than _anything_.

STOP IT! ITS A BIRD! His mind shouted, and Aziraphale snapped back to the street.

A laugh...

( _Street preacher_ )

... echoed in his head.

The bird croaked, at him again, and did not fly away. Instead, it turned to face down the street.

Slowly. Very slowly. The trolley began to move. They headed west, and a little north, into Soho.

The trolley didn’t like this. Not one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! They mean the world to me.


	5. Chapter 5

“Now, don’t fuss,” Aziraphale chided the trolley, gently. “I know I said no Cobblestones, but _technically_ these are Belgian bricks...”

The raven croaked in agreement.

The trolley felt a little ganged up upon.

The little procession made its way through the Soho evening, until it came to a sudden stop outside a empty shop, with soaped windows.

  
The raven croaked pointedly. 

It was a dear little place, Aziraphale thought, but honestly, it was hard to pay attention to. For some reason, it gave him a nasty headache. 

And his eyes kept sort of... sliding off. 

Sliding off, onto... _the car._

On the street outside the shop, there was a beautiful, vintage Bentley. Aziraphale didn’t particularly care for cars. Cars were mostly things, that people used to blast horns at him, and, on one or two memorable occasions, inched the bumpers into his knees to try to hurry him off the street.   
  


But, there was no denying that _this_ car was _gorgeous_... and demanded Aziraphale’s attention. 

_Quite literally_.

Aziraphale could have sworn that, when he tried to take his eyes off it, he caught the wipers moving in the corner of his eyes, as if to draw his attention back.

  
“What a pretty thing,”he murmured. But it was _more_ than pretty. It made his chest ache, the same way that the raven wings had. For the second time that day, the great darkness in his mind seemed to hold... a shape. Black on black. Something important. Something hidden...

  
There was _something_ about this place...   
  


Still... no point _dwelling_. There was no telling what might catch up with you, if you _dwell_.

Aziraphale started to move off when, simultaneously, the raven croaked and wildly flapped it’s beautiful wings, and the car’s horn emitted a single blast.

The trolley slammed on its breaks, on principle. No wonder it was struggling to be a trolley, when birds wouldn’t be birds, and cars wouldn’t be cars.

Aziraphale whipped around, winded, his mid-section having collided with the trolleys handle.

He tried to make eye contact with the car’s occupant, to apologise for gawping at something so beautiful, something so clearly loved...  
  


...but there was no one there.

Aziraphale blinked. Shook his head again. He must be much more tired than he thought. Turning to the trolley, he began to speak, “Well, that was...”

Then, he heard something. The window of the Bentley lowering with a soft whine. Which was odd, given that cars of that vintage did not have power windows, and also because NO ONE WAS THERE.

  
Aziraphale took a involuntary step forward.

There was a soft click, and then followed a few seconds of frenetic music, from the middle of a track, blasted out of the speakers. Even though cars of this vintage did not have stereos or speakers. 

Aziraphale did not know much about music. And the music was loud, rough, and fast, and started without warning. 

He _should not_ have been able to make out a word of it. But he _had_.

( _Because_ _You’ve heard it before!)_

> ”... And stay right where you are! Keep yourself alive! Keep yourself alive! It...”

The music cut off as suddenly as it had started.

  
The street was oddly silent. The bird was silent. The car was silent. The trolley was silent. And at least two of those things shouldn’t have been surprising.

”Did you hear that?” Aziraphale whispered to the trolley. “It was almost like that car was trying to talk to us. Can you imagine that?”

The trolley could. And deeply resented it.

(Stay right where you are!)

“Stay...” Aziraphale murmured. 

The shop. 

  
Aziraphale turned to look at the shop again. Immediately, the agonizing pounding in his head returned.

  
Still...

... Aziraphale stepped forward.

The pounding grew more frantic. Almost all of Aziraphale’s instincts were cowering from pain, begging him to turn around, to walk away. 

But there was just one, just one instinct, that whispered. _But why? Why does this shop hurt your mind? What if it’s important? The car. The wings of the bird. And now a shop that is stabbing the great darkness..._

_what if...._

Aziraphale hovered on a knife blade of a decision. Staring at the shop, and the shops door, at the shops doors handle...

_What if...?_

The car stereo clicked again. A new song. The same voice. Soaring. Softer.

(You’ve heard it before)

> ...You will remember,  
>  When this is blown over,  
>  Everything's all by the way,  
>  When I grow older,  
>  I will be there at your side, to remind you,  
>  How I still love you...

For no reason at all, or none that he could name...

(all the reasons, all of them)

... he reached for the door handle.

The moment he touched it, the pounding in his head stopped, as if it and never been. And, more astonishingly, the door opened.

  
Hesitantly, Aziraphale stepped inside.   
  


It was a book shop, of all things. Cluttered to fullness with glorious old volumes, and the soothing scent of old paper and leather.

”I’m trespassing...” Aziraphale murmured, softly. “I don’t belong here...”

But he didn’t leave. He didn’t go back to the street.   
  


Instead he walked slowly around the shop, trailing his fingers along shelves, caressing volumes.

The sound of his feet on the floor...

The way the evening light filtered in through the windows...

For a moment, he thought he smelled warm cocoa in the air.

He came across a little office. A beautiful old desk. In the middle of the desk was a hand written note.

“I’m trespassing,” he murmured. “Spying...”

He picked up the note.

> Angel,
> 
> I can’t find you. Please. I’m so worried. Whatever space you need, whatever time. I’ll respect it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Just, please let me know you are safe.
> 
> I miss you. I love you. I can’t believe I just wrote that, but I stand by it. Obviously. Not least because you don’t have white-out. Wish I’d said it aloud. Please. I need to know you are safe.  
>    
>  \- Crowley.

  
Aziraphale exhaled breathily, tears threatening once again. He hoped they had found each other again, this ‘Crowley’ and his Angel. He hoped they were happy, and together, and well.

He was half-way through the letter again - it was so hard to place back down- when the phone rang.

Aziraphale stared at it. He was _trespassing_. Answering it would be ridiculous. _Ludicrous_. He had no earthly reason to answer that phone.

He answered it. “Hello?”

” _Aziraphale? Is that you? It’s me! Adam!”_


	6. Chapter 6

“Adam? Adam Young? From Tadfield?”

“ _Yeah, of course Adam Young from Tadfield! How many other Adams do you.... oh wait. That’s a stupid question, isn’t it? You probably know loads of Adams. Maybe all the Adams? I don’t know how you work. Oh, wait?! Did you know THE Adam? Was there a THE Adam? Are you allowed to tell me that? Actually no, wait... I don’t care about that. I’m just excited that you answered the phone! Crowley didn’t answer his phone..._”

“Crowley....?”

“ _Yeah! I tried him first. Don’t... be like... offended? I just figured he’d have a better read on the situation. Cause of the... well, you know. Sides and all that. But, he didn’t answer the phone and you did,and I guess that makes sense, really when you think about it._”

“And... your alive?”

“ _Well, yeah? Obviously! You are being a bit weird. Why are you being weird? Are you two people again? Cause I don’t think I can fix it this time..... well, are you?...... Aziraphale?_ ”

“Ahhhh. No?...”

“ _Well, that’s good, anyway. Now, getting to my question...._”

“Adam, did I shoot you?”

“ _What?! Well... no. I mean, yeah. I mean, sort of? I dunno. You shot at me, only it was sort-of Madam Tracey, and you missed, but you missed on purpose. Or maybe, you missed by accident, and she missed on purpose? And, the world was ending, anyway. And, why are you asking me? I don’t know what the hell was going on. I was just trying to be eleven, and then all hell broke loose. Or tried to. So, I wanted to ask you about my brother. The actual Adam Young?_”

“Did I shoot HIM?”

“ _I don’t know?! Did you?! Did you shoot a baby?!_”

“No! I shot an eleven-year-old! At least... I don’t know?! Who’s the real Adam Young?! What happened to him? Did I kill someone else as well?”

“ _Someone else, as well as who?”_

“You!”

“ _Aziraphale.... are you alright? You sound wobbly A.F. Are you like, drunk, or something? Do angelsget drunk?_ ”

“I..... angels?! Why would I know anything about angels?! I don’t know anything, about anything. Except, apparently,child murder. That’s all I am! I’m a name, and a child murderer. Or attempted murderer, I guess. I SHOT AT YOU.... I’m a monster... I’m......”

“ _Aziraphale,STOP! What’s... like.... seriously! Is there something the matter with you? All I’m asking is if Crowley told you what happened to the other baby after the switch?_”

“I don’t remember! Adam, I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything. I don’t understand anything you are talking about... I woke up, on the street, all alone, with nothing. And, all I knew was my name, and... and that I killed you. And.... I don’t... I can’t....”

“ _Aziraphale!..... Aziraphale....? Are you? Oh, holy shit. You are crying. I made a fucking_ _angel cry. That’s...like... bad... that is like a biblical thing to do. Although, kick starting the Apocalypse is pretty biblical, as well, and... actually... you know what? This is all above my pay grade. I’m calling Crowley. Aziraphale.... Aziraphale! Are you still there? AZIRAPHALE!_”

“..... yes?....”

“ _Listen to me. Stay there. Stay in the shop. You are in the shop, right? In Soho? Stay there. I’m going to call Crowley. And, he’d better answer this time... cause I do not know how to deal with...whatever this is. I’m going to call him. And, you are going to stay there until he gets there, and then.... well, I don’t know what then. But... you’ll be alright. Just stay in the shop. Alright_?”

“.....I... okay. I’ll stay in the shop.”

“ _Wait for Crowley_.”

“.... wait for.... for Crowley”

“ _Yep! That’s.... um... bye then. Wait there._ ”

The line clicked.

Aziraphale set the receiver down.

_Wait for.....Crowley._

Aziraphale slowly reached for the handwritten note. Read each of the words carefully, over and over.

Angel.

Crowley.

Was.....?

The door to the shop burst open, Aziraphale turned blinking at the tall figure through swollen eyes.

The figure took a step forward.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered. “Are you...?”

“What are you doing in my shop, Sunshine? ”

The man stepped forward. It was like the dream. 

The smile.

The cold, purple eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley had wandered off, drunk, into the desert, and fallen asleep. While this was the sort of mistake that could be lethal to humans, Crowley had the presence of mind to transform himself into a snake, before passing out.   
  


It would appear, however, that he’d done something off a half-arsed job of it, because several of his ribs were... _ringing_.

”You are ribs, not a phone. You are ribs, not a phone,” he hissed at them, blearily. This was about as articulate as he could be, with the relatively smooth, reptilian brain he was currently operating out of.

It wasn’t articulate enough, apparently, to convince the ribs.

Snakes have far too many ribs, Crowley thought, grumpily, as he repersonified himself. He could hardly be expected to get them all right, while drunk, at short notice.

  
It was unreasonable to lose sleep over this sort of mistake. His phone ribs were being _unreasonable_.

Once he had hands, he padded angrily at his jacket pocket, and, sure enough, the abnormally persistent phone was there, ringing furiously.

Crowley squinted at the screen.

Adam.

_Bloody HELL, kid!_  
  


The phone took note of Crowley’s annoyance, but continued to ring anyway.

Crowley head butted the ground a few times first, but then, he answered it.

”Yeah, Adam, what? What is it, what could it possibly be? What?”

” _Crowley! You answered! Brilliant! Now listen. Two things. First, I want to know about the other baby. The one I was swapped with. I need to find him, Crowley. For my mum... and my dad.”_

Crowley sighed, and rolled onto his back, pressing his thumb into the bridge of his nose. It was an attempt to stop the pounding. It failed. “Listen to me, kid. You _really_ don’t. Your parents love _you_! As far as they are concerned, you are their son, and, what they don’t know, won’t hurt them. We really don’t want to go messing around with the whole situation. I know it probably didn’t seem like it at the time, but, we got unbelievably lucky with that whole thing. We _did not_ have it under control.”

  
“ _That’s not good enough, Crowley. My brother is out there, somewhere. That’s **important**. Brothers are important_!”

”Opinions differ on that, believe me,” Crowley muttered. “I could introduce you to this bloke called Cain, who...”

” _Oh, that’s funny. I just asked Aziraphale, a moment ago, if he knew the original Adam, and...”_

”Of course, Aziraphale knew the original Adam! He was right there, in the bloody garden, and.... SORRY, WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

“ _Well, when **you didn’t answer me** , I tried Aziraphale, and he said...”_

Crowley sat bolt upright. “Adam, you _just_ spoke to Aziraphale??! Where is he? Is he alright? Where...? How...? Adam, where is Aziraphale?”

Adam huffed. “ _Where is_ _ **my brother**_ _, Crowley? And, did you two, like, break-up, or something? Cause, I do not think he is taking it well. He was being WAY weirder than...”_

Crowley scrambled to his feet, almost slipping. His head was spinning. “Okay, yes. Adam, please. I will tell you all about Warlock, and the other one. Everything I know. Just please, I have to check on Aziraphale... tell me where he is, and then, I’ll call you tomorrow and...”

” _Sorry, did you say **Warlock**? And also, **other one?** There’s a third baby??! You fucked up **another** family?”_

”Is there a third baby?” Crowley repeated, frantically. “Is there a third baby, who I know absolutely nothing about what happened to, and can’t find out, because all the records were destroyed in a fire? _**No**_! I said... I said... ‘ _ **other nun** ’_. Other. Nun. There were nuns involved. Not the good nuns. The _other_ nuns. The bad nuns. Satanic nuns. Tell you all about it. _**Tomorrow**_. Adam, please, where is my Angel?”

  
“Soho, I think... I just called him, at the shop, in soho.”

Crowley blinked. “Soho? But, that’s...? Why would.... nope. Don’t care, right now. Adam, I need you to do something for me. I need to get back to England. Fast. So, I need you to **_not hang up_** , but just, set down the phone, and take a few steps back.”

” _What, why_?”

“Because, sending myself SMS takes ages. I am way more than 160 characters! Just do it!”

  
Crowley took a deep breath and....

.... and crashed into Adam’s living room.

On fire!

”Bloody hell, kid! You might have warned me?” Crowley roared.

Adam blinked, unimpressed. “Warned you about what? Also, do you know you are on fire? Can you _please_ not set fire to my house? All my stuff is here.”

”Warned me that you were using a satellite phone! I was expecting to bounce off cell towers! Not get hurtled into space and back! You don’t spring re-entry on a person! You just _DON’T_ ”

Adam shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t know about phones. I just needed one that could find you. Now, put yourself out, before you scorch the rug.”

Crowley glared at the flames, in irritation. 

  
The flames thought better of the whole thing, and quietly put themselves out.

Adam nodded. “Good. That’s better. Now we can...”

”You just called Aziraphale?” Crowley interrupted “Just now? On _that_ phone? And he _answered_?”

Adam nodded, slowly.

Crowley nodded too. “Okay! Great! Do it again, for me. Put it on speaker.”

  
Adam looked reluctant. “Crowley... I like you... but, I like Aziraphale too... I’m not sure I want to get in the middle of...”

Crowley wanted to cry. “Adam, please?! I just, just let me hear his voice. I will explain. I will explain all of this, but just, I can’t bear another second. So just... call him again. Right now. _Please_.”

Adam chewed his bottom lip for a moment, but then dialed. A moment later, he flicked on the speaker, and the sounds of the ringing line filled the living room.

Then the line picked up.

” _Hello Adam? It’s Crowley!..._ ” Gabriel’s voice sung down the line.

A vice clenched Crowley’s heart. No.

“... _thank you, so much, for calling me, and letting me know that Aziraphale resurfaced...”_

Gabriel continued, chirpily.

 _“....And, you don’t need to worry. He won’t be allowed to hurt you again. You are safe now..._ ”

  
Crowley tried to think. 

He frantically grabbed for a marker, and scribbled Adam a note, onto Deirdre’s kitchen countertop.

Adam looked at him furiously. 

Crowley tapped the note desperately.

> That’s Gabriel. Keep him talking! 

  
Adam sighed, then forced on a cheery smile. “Thank you _so much_ , Crowley! Listen... I’ve been feeling, like, maybe we got that whole Apocalypse sort-of...wrong? Do you think if I apologized to the Angel Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub, that they’d let me be the Anti-Christ again, and we could restart Armageddon? I was _such_ a little snot to them, and I feel so bad about it...”

Crowley nodded approvingly.   
  


“ _Well now, young man, it doesn’t work that way_ ,” Gabriel began. “ _Firstly, you were **very rude indeed** , and, while it’s one thing to be rude to demons, being rude to an **Angel of the Lord** is quite another thing..._”

As Gabriel went on, Crowley picked up the marker again.

> Still a satellite phone? 

  
Adam nodded.

Crowley held out his hand for the phone...

....and, a moment later, he barreled into an Angel of the Lord.   
  


On fire.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Advisory: there is some violence in this chapter. Also Gabriel being vaguely fatphobic. Also Gabriel being Gabriel.

“What are you doing in my shop, Sunshine?”

Aziraphale blinked. He tried to banish the image of his nightmares-the bloodied hands, the ghoulish smile- and concentrated instead on the note.

He felt, somehow, sure that the man who has written that beautiful, heartfelt note _MUST_ be a good man.

He knew on some level, that this was nonsense, _of course_. That any sort of man might write any sort of note.

But, somehow, he believed it anyway. The author of that note meant him no harm.

”Crowley?” He asked, again.

The man still didn’t answer. Instead, he seemed to study Aziraphale, thoughtfully. Tilting his head from one side, to the other. Purple eyes, unblinking.

Aziraphale broke the silence once more. “ _Are_ you Crowley? I spoke to Adam, and he said he was going to call Crowley. I got the impression that... that Crowley might he able to help me... so, are you? Crowley?”

The man huffed out a breath of air, and smiled an empty smile. “Well, now... let’s _see_ , Aziraphale. You spoke to Adam, Adam said he’d call Crowley, and then I showed up. So what do _you_ think? You aren’t _stupid_ , are you?”

”N....no,” Aziraphale replied a in a small voice. “So, Crowley...It’s... lovely to meet you.... err... again? I... ahh... I found your note? Here on the desk... It appears, that... maybe, you wrote it?”  
He tried to keep the tiny, desperate hope from his voice. 

Did he belong in this place, with this man? Had he found his home?

The man raised his eyebrows. “Note?” He sauntered forward, and tried to take the note out of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale found himself unwilling to let it go. 

There was a moment, a small moment, where Aziraphale and the man stared at each other, each pulling on the little piece of paper. 

  
But then, the man let go, held his hand out, his fingers spread in a clear gesture of indifference, and peered, casually, at the scribbled handwriting, instead.  
  


”Oh! _That_ note,” he said blankly.

Aziraphale took a breath. “I had a thought... I thought, maybe... maybe it was written... well...that you wrote it for....”

”You thought this was for _you_?” the man interrupted, his eyebrows again shooting up again, the empty smile twisting in amusement. “ _Huh_! Well, actually, Aziraphale you _are_ right, in a way. That note _was_ written for you. But, what you need to understand is, that it was written several _years_ ago. I can’t imagine _anyone_ would feel this way about you _NOW_. Certainly not _ME_. Although, I suppose at least you’ve gotten _thinner_. Still... no one could love you _now_. No one at all. You don’t _have_ a home anymore.”

Aziraphale shuddered, exhaling as though he’d taken a blow. A terrible sense of loss flooded his heart.

 _That’s ridiculous_ , he told himself. _You are no worse off than you were this morning_. 

  
But this place... the note... the raven wings had woken something warm in his heart, and it now lay crushed and cooling under these words. _No one could love you. You don’t have a home._

He furtively stuffed the note in his pocket. Then, steadying himself, he replied. “Be that as it may, Crowley, I wonder if you might be willing to help me, at least a little. For old times sake, perhaps.”

The man looked him up and down. “You want money?”

”I... no. I want... I don’t really _remember_ anything about myself. About who I am. Where I came from. I’m not sure why? Perhaps, I had an accident, or something. I’ve never been sure. But, _please_. Anything you can tell me, about who I am, any piece of my past, of what happened with Adam... anything at all, really. Anything would be... well, it would be _something_. If you wrote me this note, you must know something about me. You cared once. Please. _Anything_. Anything at all.”

The man blinked at him. Then, he exhaled, sadly. “You always _were_ ungrateful, Aziraphale. You never appreciated anything I did for you. This was no accident. I did this ON PURPOSE! To _save_ you. To erase how _wrong_ you were, how far you’d strayed from the light. To give you a chance at _redemption_. And, now you tell me you’ve just been bumbling around, assuming you got bumped on the head?! You should have been spending this time ruminating on your greatest sin!”

”On shooting Adam?” Aziraphale murmured. “No, don’t misunderstand, I’ve regretted that every day, and I tried to... no actually. Wait. What do you mean _you did this_ to me? _How_?”

The man smirked. “Oh, the how was _easy_. I just plucked your pathetic excuse of an existence right out of you. I plucked you like a chicken, Aziraphale! Until you _bled_. And still, here you are, _whining_! Wanting _more help_! You should be grateful you don’t remember your gluttonous, useless, incompetent, blasphemous life. Interfering in things above your station. Breathing fire at your betters! But, what do you do when I free you from all of that? You _come back_ here. Trespassing in _my_ shop. Breaking _my_ wards. Even after I’ve stripped you to the bone, your _worthlessness_ leaks through _anyway_.”

  
Aziraphale crumpled. Trying not to cry. He slipped his hand into his pocket. Even in the face of this diatribe from its author, the little note there still felt warm. Full of love. “Please... Crowley... I’m sorry... I...”

The phone, the one Adam had called him on started to ring, again.

The man ignored it.

Aziraphale uncurled a little and reached for it.

”Stop!”

Aziraphale froze. ”But...It’s probably Adam, again. He likely just wants to make sure you got here....”

“That can wait.”

Even almost doubled over with heartbreak and shame, this made Aziraphale pause. Something wasn’t right. “But, _why_ would you make Adam wait? If I’m not worth your time, then...”

”Fine!” the man snapped, striding over to the phone. For a moment, he seemed uncertain. As if unsure how to use it, and somewhat reluctant to touch it. But then, with gritted teeth, he answered.

  
_“_ Hello Adam? It’s Crowley! Thank you, so much, for calling me, and letting me know that Aziraphale resurfaced...”

 _  
  
_The man turned, to glare at Aziraphale, as he said his name. He bared his teeth.

( _Run_!)  
  


Aziraphale flinched, and his eyes flicked to the door of the shop. The dream image of this man, and his ghoulish, blood-covered fingers and mouth, shot back into Aziraphale’s mind, and a strange, phantom pain echoed through his body.  
  


( _Run_!)

“....And, you don’t need to worry. He won’t be allowed to hurt you again. You are _safe_ now...”

( _Run now_!)

  
  
Aziraphale tried to break for the door, but somehow, he couldn’t move. Somehow, he was pinned in place by those bared teeth, those purple eyes.

( _You HAVE to run!_ _Get away! This is ALL a trick of The Light!)_

The man was still talking, but Aziraphale couldn’t hear him anymore. He could only _feel_ him. Peering into his mind, boring in, tearing in; the phantom pain crescendoing, until it was no longer a phantom, and no longer just pain.   
  


Aziraphale was _pinned_. Aziraphale was being _scoured_. Being _torn apart._  
  


And, then.... there was fire.

  
With the pain in his soul, and the fire in his vision, it took Aziraphale a moment to realise that it was _not_ he, himself, on fire.

When he finally managed to SEE, what he saw made even less sense than anything had so far.

The man with the purple eyes was on fire, and there was another man, man with yellow eyes, who was on fire as well. They tumbled, and burned, and screamed.

”Aziraphale?! Is that you?! What happened?! You look awful?!”   
Aziraphale stared up into Adam Young’s face. 

Not eleven-year-old Adam, but adult Adam. 

From the internet photos.

Wide-eyed, and looking at him, with much more concern than he seemed to have for the men brawling before them, aflame.

”Adam?” Aziraphale whispered. “What are you doing here?”

Adam shrugged. “Wasn’t going to miss a chance to go to space, now, was I?! Went a bit quick though, I must say... Anyway. Should we help Crowley?”

Aziraphale felt a little conflicted about helping the roaring, purple-eyed man. But, he supposed, Adam was right, and so he ran out into the street, towards his trolley, and grabbed the fire-extinguisher, and two heavy blankets, that the dear trolley had shuffled to the top for him.

These in hand, Aziraphale ran back inside, and threw a blanket over each burning figure and then doused them both liberally with foam.

The moment they were extinguished, both men stared at him stupidly. A moment passed and then the purple-eyed man vanished, and the yellow- no _golden_ \- eyed man staggered to his feet.

”Aziraphale!” The golden-eyed man gasped, croakily, before pulling him into a foamy, chest-crushing hug.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but hug back. 

He hadn’t been touched with kindness in _so long_. 

He didn’t care that literally nothing made sense. Because, for a moment, literally nothing mattered but that embrace.

The golden-eyed man had other ideas though, because, not long enough later, broke the hug. ”I could hold you forever, but Angel, we have to _MOVE_. You know Arch-Angels. Like cockroaches. Where there’s one, there’s more. Is the Bentley outsiiii.... Adam?! How the _hell_ did you get here?”

Adam shrugged. “Same as you.”

The golden-eyed man startled. “Then, why aren’t you on fire?”

”Because, I’m human,” Adam retorted, in a very teenaged tone. “If I’d caught fire, then, unlike you, I might have gotten hurt!”

”But, that’s not how this _works_!” the golden-eyed man shouted. “That’s not how _any of this_ works and... oh, who cares? No time! We’ve gotta go. Everyone in the Bentley now!”

The man tried to pull Aziraphale toward the door, but, Aziraphale dug in his heels. “But... but _wait_! What happened to Crowley...?!”

The man stopped short, and stared at him, wild, golden eyes as wide as saucers.   
  


“... and who are _you_ , anyway?!” Aziraphale finished.

The man kept staring.

”There, you see!” Adam said to the man. “I _told_ you he was being _weird_.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content advisory: oblique description of injuries

“Angel, what... what are you talking about?.... _I’m_ Crowley!”

Aziraphale stared at him. This man, this beautiful man, with golden eyes.

( _The flame. The garden_.)

The note, from the desk, in his pocket.

_Angel._

_Crowley._

“He _IS_ Crowley,” Adam interjected. “This is Crowley. The other one, from before. That was the Angel Gabriel.”

  
  
“The _Angel Gabriel_?” Aziraphale repeated slowly, turning his attention to Adam. “As in, from the Nativity Play?”

Aziraphale liked the Nativity. And, he liked hearing about it inside, out of the cold. He would sneak in. Stand in the back. Churches had tolerated him far better around Christmas time than at other times. Sometimes, around Christmas, people even smiled at him there.

  
  
“Yes, as in the nativity play,” The man.... Crowley.... hissed. “And, when he isn’t bothering shepherds, with birth announcements that they may, or may not, find relevant in another thirty-odd years? He has a side hobby, where he tries to murder the two of us!”

  
  
“ _Us_?” Aziraphale whispered. He couldn’t help but be thrilled by the word. To be part of an us. To _belong_.

“What did he _DO_ to you?” Crowley replied, not seeming to notice, Aziraphale's reaction “And, where have you _been_?”

  
  
It seemed ridiculous to Aziraphale that he, of all people, was being called upon to explain what was going on, when he clearly knew the least. But, he didn’t object. He saw they pleading in the golden eyes, and he yearned to sate it.

So, Aziraphale stared at the swirling nonsense his life had become, and caught onto a thread.

“I woke up, on the street, a few years ago. Six or seven, I think. I knew my name, and I had a single memory of... of Adam here, but nothing else. The rest of my life, whatever it had been was a blank. And It hurt, when I woke up... _I_ hurt, but the pain faded over time....

“... Just before you arrived that... that man, before...The Angel Gabriel? Apparently?! He said that he _did_ something, to me. For my own good. But, I don’t know what. I don’t remember it. Or him, or anything. I think, I sort of _dream_ about it sometimes...but... but I don’t know... I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Holy shit!” Adam answered. “That’s awful!”

“You remembered Adam, but not me,” Crowley said, then, softly.

Aziraphale shuddered. “I remembered _shooting_ Adam. And, that was all. I thought he was _dead_ until a few days ago. I thought I _murdered_ him.”

  
  
Crowley bit his lip. Adjusted his posture. “And, you’ve been alone all this time? Just alone... in the cold? Hungry?”

“I had my trolley...” Aziraphale answered, knowing it sounded a little stupid, but feeling the need to say it all the same.

  
  
“Okay... okay...,” Crowley murmured, his voice soft, and ragged. “Listen, Aziraphale... I... you won’t be alone any more. I _promise_ , I am going to take care of you, and we are going to sort all this out. I... we are _family_. You might not remember, but I swear to you, it’s true.”

Absurd as this was - or as absurd as something could be, when said by a man made of fire, who appeared in a magic bookshop, to fight the Evil Angel Gabriel- Aziraphale _believed_ him.

  
  
Crowley wasn’t done. “We really, really have to go but... I just need to take a quick look, okay?”

  
  
“A quick look at...?”

  
“A quick look at _you_ , the REAL you, so, I’m going to stop time, and we are going to relocate somewhere... cloudy... for a few seconds, and then we will come straight back here... and then, we have to _go_....”

  
“Oh! I remember this!” Adam chirped happily. “With the clouds and the wings and stuff, neat!”

  
Crowley ignored him, his eyes still locked into Aziraphale’s. “Ready?”

  
Reality swirled, and there were clouds, and there was light and.... and _wings_.

_Raven wings_!

Aziraphale stared. Crowley’s beautiful wings.

Tears welled in Aziraphale’s eyes. The raven...it was... _this_.

This.

This was the beauty, hidden in the great darkness. 

He’d found it.

Found _him_.

  
Whatever it meant, Aziraphale knew, if he had a home at all, it was... _must be_... folded within those beautiful wings.

  
He fell to his knees with joy.

At the same moment, Adam let out a horrified shriek.

Aziraphale turned to stare at him. The boy, who had grown, who now stood on clouds, who now stared at Aziraphale, with horror and... disgust... written plainly on his face.

  
  
“Adam, _hush_!” Crowley pleaded, out of the side of his mouth, his voice, tight. Almost strangled.

Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s face, a face that was frozen, a face that was made of giant sad eyes.

“But! _Crowley_! His....” Adam screamed.

“SHUT IT!” Crowley shouted, begged.

  
Aziraphale recoiled.

  
_He was a monster. And they could see!_

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale, _**look at me**_!” Crowley said. His voice was even softer than before. Raw. Desperate. “Don’t look at Adam, look at me. Angel.... It’s going to be okay. Everything is... I’m going to _fix_... I’m going to _take care_ of you. Everything is okay. Don’t worry about... everything’s _okay_. We are going back to the shop now.”

  
And they did. Clouds became floorboards once more, beneath Aziraphale’s knees and Crowley’s beautiful raven wings disappeared from view.

  
Aziraphale looked longingly at Adam and at Crowley, sure they were about to run.

  
_They saw something. They saw **me,** and...._

....And, Crowley, against all expectation, fell to his knees next to Aziraphale, and pulled him into another bone crushing hug.

Aziraphale felt the tremor of sobs through his body, unsure where they had originated. Neither Crowley’s eyes nor his own were dry.

“We have to _go_ ,” Crowley said after a moment.

Aziraphale sniffed, and squared his shoulders against heartbreak. “I understand,” he lied, trying to pour as much love as he could into the words. “Goodbye, Crowley.”

Crowley blinked. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Angel!” Then, he grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist and dragged him into the street.


	10. Chapter 10

Hearts should be _easy_.

Hearts were just pumps, made of meat, that pumped oxygenatable goop.

But, Crowley’s heart had _never_ known what to do around Aziraphale. It pounded, it ached, it overflowed, it tore. Basically, _anything_ except be a meat-pump, pumping goop.

At just this moment, it was attempting to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, because it simply could not handle the magnitude of...

... but, there wasn’t _time_.

Crowley’s preparation, for Hell getting a little cross with him, hadn’t exactly begun and ended with a tartan flask full of holy water.

  
  
There was a cottage in Sussex. Carefully warded. Mostly warded against demons, it was true, but, there was more cross-over than one might expect. And, he had thrown up some quick anti-Angel protections, when he’d checked the place for Aziraphale a few years back. Not _AGAINST_ Aziraphale, mind you, but more as a general principle.

The trick was going to be _getting_ there, as quickly as possible, before Gabriel had a chance to lick his wounds- or, more likely, order a lackey to lick them for him. Point was, they had to _move_.

Crowley strode over to the Bentley and opened the back door.

  
“Right! Everybody _in_!”

Absolutely no one listened to him, except for a raven that Crowley hadn’t been talking to anyway. The raven swooped dramatically, landed on the back headrests and began preening.

Crowley decided to ignore it.

“Get in!” He insisted to Adam and Aziraphale.

“Err... shot-gun?” Adam replied, weakly.

He didn’t want to sit next to Aziraphale, Crowley realised, with a flash of resentment. Not after what they’d....

There wasn’t time for fury, though. Not _yet_. Or, at least, not past a general sort of declaration that Gabriel was not nearly as DEAD as he needed to be. And, that he needed to, very quickly, be made very-much-more-DEAD, indeed.  
  


There might not yet be a suitable amount of DEAD in existence, for the amount of DEAD Crowley needed Gabriel to be. But, Crowley considered himself a resourceful fellow. He was confident he’d manage.

“Fine,” Crowley hissed. “Adam, get in the front.”

He softened his tone, though, before speaking to Aziraphale. “Angel, I can’t imagine how confused you are. But, please trust me, we need to get out of here before Gabriel comes back.”

  
“But....... my trolley,” Aziraphale whispered miserably very clearly torn. His hand tight around the trolley’s handle.

“It’s just a trolley full of junk,” Crowley replied gently. “And, anyway, the shop will look after it....”

A tear rolled down Aziraphale’s cheek. “But...the shop is _Gabriel’s_...”

“It VERY MUCH IS NOT!” Crowley objected, newly horrified.

“... and, trolley full of junk or not, it’s _everything_ I _have_.”

Crowley’s heart made considerable progress on the whole shattering-to-pieces plan. “Okay... no. No problem. We will bring it with us.”

He snapped his fingers, and picked up the trolley, now the size and weight of a lap dog, handed it off to Aziraphale, taking advantage of his shock, by gently manhandling him into the back seat.

The Bentley broke into a chorus of You’re My Best Friend, as Crowley slid into the drivers seat, revved the engine, and drove away at such a speed that it took his full attention, leaving him no room to _think_.

Adam was quiet. Staring out the window.

Aziraphale, completely overwhelmed, cried silently.

Crowley drove.

The raven preened.

The trolley.... The trolley sat on Aziraphale’s lap. It was _excessively_ annoyed that the whole world was suddenly far too big. And, it was now inside the not-a-car. With the not-a-bird. And, with the three least-human people it had _ever_ encountered.

But, at the same time, it was being warmly held, its basket caressed by soft strokes of The Owner’s fingers. Generally speaking, _no one_ loved trolleys. That was not what trolleys were for. The trolley felt.... _conflicted_.

They drove south quickly, Crowley shepherding them through aerodynamically impossible corners and geometrically impossible passes. The countryside flicked past at impossible speed. Inertia took one look at the car’s occupants, and decided to treat them very delicately _indeed_.

The sun was just setting as they arrived. The South Downs were putting on a show for them.

Bathed in the rosy golden light, Crowley allowed himself to think, just for a moment, and only to think that he had found Aziraphale. He had found his Angel. And everything would be alright now. Everything would be alright, even if he had to arrange the universe, molecule by molecule, into the shape of ‘alright’. _Personally_.

“Okay everyone, inside,” he muttered.

Aziraphale carried the trolley, and bird and boy managed on their own.

  
  
Crowley gently ran a hand along the Bentley’s hood, before he followed. “Keep watch for me, now won’t you? _Good_ car. I’ve... I’ve missed you. But, I had to find him. You understand, don’t you?”

The Bentley did.

Inside, Aziraphale was standing, still carrying the trolley, as if unsure what to do.

Crowley took him gently, by the shoulders, and deposited him into a leather, wing-back chair. He flicked a soft, light blue blanket into existence, and laid it across Aziraphale’s knees, and then, created another which he tucked around his shoulders, and then, clicked at the fire place which instantly caught and crackled, and then, created a mug of cocoa. And a plate of assorted biscuits.

When Aziraphale hesitantly reached for a Jammie Dodger, the rest of the biscuits _also_ became Jammie Dodgers.

“Do you want cheese?” Crowley asked hesitantly. “Or a sandwich? Or... or crepes? What can I get you Angel? What can I _do_?”

“I’d like a cup of cocoa, too,” Adam piped up, from over on a overstuffed chaise lounges.

“Kitchens that way,” Crowley replied.

Adam grumbled.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley. “I want.... we _know_ each other...”

“Yes.”

“I want you to _tell_ me...” Aziraphale trailed off.

“We’ve known each other a very long time,” Crowley replied, emotion spilling into the words without permission. “You are very, very dear to me. You went missing, seven years ago. Right after... right after we saved the world together. And... and I have been frantic. I have looked every day. And...oh, my Angel... I know you have been alone all this time, and in pain, and never sure why... and I _can’t imagine_. But, I promise you... those days, that life, is _over_ now. And, if it’s worth anything at all, I promise you that you were loved, every single one of those days... I...”

Aziraphale made a strange sound. “Gabriel said...”

“Gabriel is... Gabriel is a _fucking monster_ , Angel. Don’t listen to him...”

“You see, I found this.....”

Crowley nodded encouragement. “Yes... What did you....”

Aziraphale shuddered. “...Can I have a bath? Please? You asked what I... Could I have a bath? I don’t like that I’m sullying your beautiful house. It doesn’t matter if it’s cold. I’m used to.... cold.”

“Yeah, of course,” Crowley rasped. “You... you aren’t _sullying_ anything. But, you can have a bath, if that’s what you want. I’ll... I’ll get you towels, and a robe, and a rubber duck, and wash clothes, and bath soap, and bath salts, and bath bombs and... and... I’ll make you something to eat... what do you feel like? Did i offer you crepes already? Or scones? Petit fours? Or... a roast? I’m not sure I could handle roasting a duck, but I could roast a...a.... sheep? I guess? Or a chicken? Always been a bit lukewarm towards chickens... Or maybe something lighter? Soup? Aziraphale... would you like... soup? In the bath?”

Aziraphale burst into tears again.

Crowley’s heart _burned_. “Okay, okay! Too much. Let’s just start with the Bath. And the water, towels and robes. And soap. But that’s it... I mean for starters... just until... although... the rubber duck? That’s just one more thing?”

A rubber duck appeared in Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale stared at it, sobbing quietly.

“Oh, I know?” Crowley said softly. “I’ll put the duck in... in the trolley. So then you’ll have it when you want it. If you want it.... I.... there!”

It was quite a large rubber duck in quite a small trolley.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

“I think I’ll start running that bath,” Adam said, quietly.

Crowley nodded, and quickly miracled a claw-foot tub into existence, in the bathroom upstairs, so Adam had something to find.

Then, he knelt down in front of the wing-back chair, and gently took Aziraphale’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Aziraphale sniffed, and hiccuped. Without quite bringing himself to look at Crowley he started talking. “I... back in the shop. You said you wanted to look at the _real me_. And, when you did, Adam _screamed_...”

“He’s a kid,” Crowley interrupted. “Idiot kid.”

“What did he _see_ , Crowley? What _am_ I?”

Crowley sighed. “You are _hurt_. You’ve been hurt badly... but... that’s not what you _are_.”

To Crowley’s relief, Aziraphale nodded, as if that was enough for now. “And... you call me Angel... is that... do you call everyone that... or....?”

“No. _Never_. Just you,” Crowley insisted. “I’ve never met another being worthy of the name. Just you. Only you. Always you. It’s always been _you_.”

“And... is there somewhere I can sleep? After the bath....?”

  
  
Crowley blinked. “You sleep now? That’s new?!”

  
  
“I thought I was human just this morning,” Aziraphale replied, shrugging helplessly. “And, I’m _tired_... so? Is there? I mean, the floor is fine... but...”

“No! I mean.... yes, of course... there’s a room for you,” Crowley sighed. “When I built this place... I made a room for you. Because I always hoped... one day... nevermind. There is a room for you, and it will have a bed in it, by the time you get out of your bath. And, maybe a roast chicken in it. We’ll see how we go.”

Aziraphale smiled, hesitantly. “A roast chicken? IN the bed?”

Crowley smiled too. “Yeah, why not?”

“Don’t go to any _trouble_ for me, Crowley.”

Crowley sighed, reached up toward Aziraphale’s golden-white hair and swept a stray fluffy strand behind his ear. “I will go to _all_ the trouble, for you, Angel. Because, and I’m quite the expert here, trouble knows no higher purpose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this story. It’s such a wonderful source of affirmation and encouragement (although, by no means required/expected, so please don’t worry if it’s not your thing...) and I genuinely appreciate each and every one and read them all (multiple times usually!)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Advisory: Description of injuries and references to violence.
> 
> It might be a hard one to read.

Aziraphale was curled up in the bath. One ear was below the surface, listening to the sound of the water, while the other took in the sound of own breathing.

  
  


He had been lying there for hours, if the darkening of the sky though the frosted window was any indication, but the water was still perfectly warm. He doubted it had cooled a degree.

There was a great deal trying to squeeze into his head. To squeeze in, uninvited, between the sound of the water, and the sound of his breathing.

There was Adam’s scream, for one. His horrified eyes.

For another, Gabriel’s bloodstained teeth.

And, there was the way that Aziraphale’s fingertips yearned to run along satin black feathers.

Confusion was running out of him, in the form of seemingly endless tears.

When he felt the urge to wail, he silenced himself by turning his face onto the water.

Eventually his exhaustion was overwhelming, and the chance of falling asleep, and slipping beneath the water for good, felt far too real.

So, Aziraphale climbed shakily out of the bath into the unnaturally heated room, dried himself with a somehow warm fluffy towel and slipped on the warm, white terry-robe.  


He carefully released the bathwater, and concentrated on cleaning the tub with a washcloth. And then, on tidying every drop of water spilt on the floor, with a towel. He carefully hung the wet towel and cloth, wringing them so they wouldn’t drip, and folded the clothes he’d taken off. The clothes he’d worn for years.

While folding, he took a moment to retrieve the note from his pocket,

> Angel,
> 
> I can’t find you. Please. I’m so worried. Whatever space you need, whatever time. I’ll respect it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Just, please let me know you are safe.
> 
> I miss you. I love you. I can’t believe I just wrote that, but I stand by it. Obviously. Not least because you don’t have white-out. Wish I’d said it aloud. Please. I need to know you are safe.
> 
> \- Crowley.

“White-out,” he murmured, with a soft smile.

He slipped the note hurriedly into the robe’s pocket, though, as Gabriel’s words intruded.

.... _it was written several_ _ years ago....no one would feel that way about you NOW _ _._..

He caught his face in the slightly steamed mirror.  


Gaunt. Lined.

Aziraphale turned away.

He crept to the room Crowley had said was for him.  
  


It was generously sized. The window faced South East. It would be warm in the morning, and was lined with books, a comfortable chair and a big after-thought of a bed. No dresser.  


A little table was crammed with a mug of warm milk, a mug of warm cocoa, a glass of cold milk, a glass of water, a crystal tumbler with a dram of something golden, and a tea cup filled with warm, aromatic tea.

Aziraphale gently placed his little parcel of old clothes down on the chair, stuck his finger in the water and traced the rim of the glass, until a harmonic hum emerged. Then he tried the rim of milk glass, and that of the tumbler. Three different, pretty notes. He caught himself smiling, again.

But, then, the corner of his eye caught the pile of clothes. The pile of _filthy_ street clothes on the stunning, antique chair.

It wouldn’t _do_.

He snatched the clothes, looking for another, tidy place to put them.  


He thought of his trolley and how he’d abandoned the poor thing downstairs.

He wanted it with him. 

If it was still small, he would try to sneak it up here. If it had... _grown_ again, he would wait until the others had gone to bed, and sleep downstairs.

He crept down the stairs, on bare feet to investigate.  
  
  


Adam and Crowley were in the kitchen, and they were talking.

“But.... I don’t understand how he is even alive like that!” Adam, sounding chilled.

  
  


“Adam, please!” Crowley, sounding raw.”

  
  


“But...they’ve got to be _gangrenous,_ right? Should we....”

“We don’t _work_ like that, Adam...”

“Tell you what, Gabriel is something of a loss to the horror-movie industry, if he can dream up something like...”

“STOP IT! JUST STOP! STOP IT! STOP!” Crowley suddenly roared at thrice the volume. “That’s _my Aziraphale_ , and you can’t talk about him like that. Don’t you _understand_?! You are playing right into Gabriel’s hands. He did that to Aziraphale _on purpose!_ Angels are beings of love. But, every person he’s encountered _for years_ , has, on some level, sensed what you saw, and treated him like a monster. Gabriel did that _on purpose!_ And you... _you_ are _still doing it_ , and you should _know_ better, Adam! Why don’t you _KNOW_ better?”

Aziraphale ran back up the stairs. 

He ran back to the bedroom first, his heart pounding, sucking in barren lungfuls of air. Leaning weakly against the wall-paper, before stepping away in horror, checking it for contamination. He couldn’t calm down. He couldn’t bear it.  


He needed to _see_...

Drawing his fingers into fists, he marched back into the small bathroom, wiped the steam from the mirror, and stared. 

Stared hard.

He needed to _see_.

He _needed_.

He _did_.

A moment later, Aziraphale collided, with the floor. He screamed breathlessly. 

  
  


He’d seen. Corruption. Mutilation. _Putrefaction_. And, now he could _feel_ it. He couldn’t _stop_ feeling it. It had been there the whole time.

“Angel?!” Crowley, hollered, bursting through the door.

_Angel_ , Aziraphale laughed bitterly. 

No.

Ghoul.

Wight.

_Wraith_.

“I saw....” he managed to gasp out. There was no need for Crowley to pretend any more.

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley whispered. “It’s... okay. I’m so sorry. It’s.... we’ll fix it. You’ll get better now. Because, I’m here. And, I’ll help you, Zira, I swear it. Here... let’s...”

Crowley swept Aziraphale off the floor, into his arms, and carried him into the bedroom, kissing him on the forehead every few seconds.

“Crowley, don’t,” Aziraphale wailed as Crowley laid him gently on the bed. “Your sheets, your beautiful sheets.”

“No. No. No. _Don’t_. No.” Crowley spoke over him, louder, now sobbing himself. Punctuating each no with a kiss. “Sweet, Angel. No. Sleep, darling. _Please_.”

Aziraphale clung to Crowley, his whole body convulsing as he wept, sure he was feeling the last love of his life. Sure that whatever obligation Crowley felt to him, would expire any second, that he would, in each very-next-moment, be alone again.

  
  


But, when sleep at last found him, Crowley’s arms were still strong around his chest.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Advisory: brief discussion of injuries, brief discussion of possible amputations

Crowley didn’t sleep, didn’t think, didn’t rage, didn’t weep.

Crowley held Aziraphale and Crowley waited.

He watched the stars turn in the small window. Too slow for human eyes, but not for his. The spinning cosmos. Wheels within wheels.

And, he listened to Aziraphale’s breathing. Slow and soft through the night. He waited for signs of a nightmare, but none came. Just a steady rhythm which he measured against the incremental motion of the stars.

I found you, he would think, to the sounds of Aziraphale breathing in. Of air rushing into Aziraphale’s chest, nestling around his heart, ever so fractionally tightening their embrace.

And I love you, he would think, to the exhalation, the soft, slightly slower puff of air. Crowley slowed down the thought to fill the whole space.

And he set his own breathing in time.

He didn’t know if Aziraphale would sleep just the night, or a hundred years. And he didn’t care.

He just waited.

Aziraphale woke with the dawn. He turned in Crowley’s arms and regarded him, first with joy, and then with sadness, one running into the other.

“Crowley, you _stayed_ ,” he whispered.

“I did,” Crowley whispered back. “I always will. Always.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I dreamed...”

“Oh Angel, I’m sorry,” Crowley replied, honestly devastated. “I’d so hoped to keep the nightmares away.”

“It was the nice dream,” Aziraphale corrected gently. “Who would have thought after seeing.... but it was the one with the garden. Are you the flame above the garden, Crowley?”

“I might be,” Crowley replied, softly. “Tell me the dream.”

Aziraphale did. The garden, the flame, the rain, the umbrella.

Crowley nodded slowly. “Then... yes, Angel. I’m the flame. That really happened. We met on walls above the garden.”

“It’s real,” Aziraphale murmured softly. “A real memory. It’s still... still somewhere. Not gone. And, the umbrella was really....”

“Really your wings, Angel,” Crowley whispered. “And they aren’t gone either...”

  
  


“I WANT them to be,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I don’t want those horrible festering... _things_ on me. The rest is bad enough. Can I...can you...”

  
  


“Last resort, and then some, Angel,” Crowley replied, shaking his head. “You are thinking like a human, and those aren’t human body-parts. If you cut parts of a human, then when you are done, you have a human and... some parts. _We_ don’t work that way. If we take off your wings, then, you’ll only lose more of yourself than you have already. We have to... we have to do something harder I’m afraid. We have to heal them. Them and the rest of you.”  
  


Aziraphale stared at him. “Is that even possible? Do you know how?”

“After breakfast,” Crowley answered.

“Breakfast?” 

“You need to take care of yourself,” Crowley replied, putting on a warm smile.. “You need to eat. You look like a stiff breeze would discorporate you. “ He hated seeing Aziraphale’s corporation so thin. The loneliness and hunger it spoke to cut him to the core.

“I _am_ hungry,” Aziraphale admitted. “If there’s anything going spare.”

  
  


Crowley hung his head for a moment. _Going spare_. He imagined grinding Gabriel to dust, and distributing the remains evenly thought out all of time and space. “I will make you _anything_ you want! Extinct animal fritters? Done! Hasn’t-been-genetically-modified-yet-abomination-from-the-future omelette, I will make it happen!”

“Toast?”

  
  


“I will make you _toast_!” 

  
  


They got up, reluctantly disentangled, and headed down stairs.

They were greeted by a softly croaking raven and a miniature trolley which rolled over to Aziraphale’s feet, in order be be picked up.

  
And, by Adam.  
  


“Oh,” Crowley sighed. “I _forgot_ about _you_.”

  
Adam stepped forward and drew in a halting breath. “Listen, about yesterday, I’m sorry...”

  
  


“I don’t really care, Adam, if I’m honest,” Crowley sighed. “Warlock Dowling is where you’ll need to start. He’s the son of the American Ambassador that was supposed to raise you, and his mother gave birth at the same hospital as Deirdre Young, on that same night. So, we are square. That should be plenty to get you started. I’ll call you an Uber.”

  
  


Adam blinked. “Firstly, you’ll never get an Uber to pick me up from the middle of nowhere Sussex, to take me to Oxfordshire...”

  
  


“Bet you _I_ can,” Crowley growled.

  
  


“... and secondly, I was trying to apologize to _Aziraphale_ , not you. Aziraphale, I’m sorry. I was ... not great to you yesterday. Just, what’s going on with your... Angel-form... it’s pretty damn upsetting...”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley interrupted. “That’s human empathy for you! Turns off like a tap. Say, a few burns or a bad birthmark, bad smell, drug addiction, or a mental illness, and your monkey amygdalas will let your own kind die in the streets. The slightest excuse to say, _they are_ _not us_. This is not _news_ to us, Adam. “

  
  


“... But, I’m sorry Aziraphale! Is what I’m trying to say. You wouldn’t treat anyone like that, I don’t think, and I wish I hadn’t either. So... I thought, maybe, we could take the whole ‘trying to shoot me’ thing, and just, call it even? And then, you wouldn’t have to feel bad about it. Because, frankly, you are _far_ more hung up on the whole thing than I am, and I was the one who was almost shot...”

  
Crowley rolled his eyes, but caught Aziraphale’s face mid roll and saw that it was beaming. His heart did the _thing_ again.

  
  


“I... _thank you_ Adam. You are quite forgiven, and, I’d _gratefully_ take your offer of being even.”

  
  


Adam smiled at Aziraphale. And then shot Crowley the world’s snottiest look.

  
  


“Calling that Uber,” Crowley muttered. “And I’m finding one with shot suspension, and no heater.”

  
  


“But what if you _need_ me?” Adam asked, folding his arms.

  
  


“Need YOU? Why would WE need you?”

  
  


“Because,” Adam replied, infuriatingly. “Because, you looked for him, non-stop for seven years, and I found him in less than two days, and I wasn’t even trying that hard.”

  
  


Crowley glared. “I AM GOING TO MAKE TOAST. I AM NOT MAKING ANY FOR YOU.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Advisory: Discussion of injuries, discussion of treatment for injuries.

“So, that was breakfast,” Adam remarked to Aziraphale, who was feeding the bacon Crowley insisted on making him to the raven.

  
  


“I liked it,” Aziraphale replied, pleasantly. “We should do it again, sometime.”

  
  


“Tomorrow morning, even,” Adam suggested.

“You only ate toast, though, Angel,” Crowley said, his brow knotting. “You can’t _just_ eat plain toast. I’ll have to do something more nutritious. French toast, maybe.”

  
  


“You want to French the toast?”Aziraphale replied, lightly. “ _Dear me_.”

  
  


Crowley smiled, despite himself, while Adam groaned. “I just might, if it would make you eat more of it. Can’t have you discorporating. Heaven knows what would happen, then. Quite literally. I’ve no idea how... _sanctioned_ Gabriel’s actions were, but, based on the hellfire incident, I’m far from encouraged.”

  
  


Aziraphale frowned pensively, looking ready to ask a question- _surely, he must surely have a million of them_! - but his expression abruptly changed, to one of mild alarm

  
  


“Oh, Adam, dear! Have you called your mother, to tell her where you are?”

“Does he have to? He’s eighteen, isn’t he?” Crowley shrugged, although he regretted the sentiment when he saw Adam’s face light up with smug.

“Yes, _of course_ he must,” Aziraphale pouted. “She’ll be so _worried_!”

Adam snorted. “And, what part of, ‘ _Hi Mum! I’ve abruptly run off to Sussex, with two much-older men that I barely know!_ ’ is going to make her worry _less_?”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “You needn’t add _all_ that detail.”

“I’m sorry! Is an ANGEL suggesting that I LIE to my MUM?!”

  
  


“Of course not!” Aziraphale answered. ”Just, let her know you aren’t dead in a ditch, and, err... _selectively edit_ the easily misunderstood details. She needs to know you are _safe_ , Adam.”

  
  


Crowley felt his gut twist. “Aziraphale’s right, Adam. Call your mum.”

  
  


Adam got up, and stomped out of the room. “Fine. But, don’t plan anything interesting while I’m out of the room. And, I have to say, it’s a bit _ironic_ that, all of a sudden, you two both care about my mum, when you were both _perfectly happy_ to nick her newborn, and then _perfectly happy_ to shoot the replacement, eleven years later....”

  
  


“Oh, just _do it_ , you little shit,” Crowley roared after him. “Honestly, Aziraphale! Were we like that when we were teenagers?”

  
  


Aziraphale smiled back, gently. “I don’t know, Crowley. You would have to tell me.”

  
  


Crowley huffed out breath. “Actually, Angel. I _can’t_. Technically speaking, not playing with a full deck of memory cards, either. I don’t know anything about my life before I Fell...”

  
  


“Oh! Did you hit your head?”Aziraphale replied, concerned. “That’s what I assumed happened to me...”

“No, Angel. Capital-F Fell. Fell from Grace. Actually, I bet that’s what that bastard Gabriel was up to, with you.He was so pissed off that you defied him, and didn’t Fall, that he took matters into his own hands. Tried to _Push you from Grace_ , so to speak.”

  
Aziraphale curled in on himself. “He said something about it being for my redemption. Allowing me to meditate on my greatest sin...”

  
  


“Yeah, bullshit,” Crowley replied, darkly. “Arseholes gonna arse. He was trying to remake you _Fallen_. But, he _failed_. I suppose _no one_ Falls anymore, given that Gabriel hasn’t...”

  
  


“Why would Gabriel...”

  
  


“For what he did to _you_! For _daring_ to injure my tweedy, naff Prometheus. First, and truest, Guardian of Humanity, and Crowley’s Choice:Angel of the Year, 6000 years running!”

  
  


Aziraphale smiled softly. “Am I really....?”

  
  


“Absolutely! No contest! You should see the wall of champions! It’s 6000 regular pictures of you, photo-mosaiced into a giant picture, of you holding a giant trophy.”

  
  


Aziraphale laughed, musically . “Am I really _an Angel_ , is what I was going to say.”

  
  


“Yes. Definitely. _Best one_.”

“And.... _you_ are really an Angel...”

  
  


Crowley nodded. “Yes! Well, no! I was before I... _you know.._.” He gestured a ironic thumbs down and whistles.

  
  


“Before you _fell_ ,” Aziraphale finished. “And, what are you _now_?”

  
  


Crowley smiled up through his eyelashes. “Now, I’m a _Crowley_.”  
  


Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again when Adam stomped back into the room.  


“Done,” Adam grumbled. “Called Mum. Told her I spontaneously backpacked to Brighton with a group of Australians. She’s only _a little bit_ hysterical, so, all good. Now, cause I know you didn’t wait for me. What’s the plan? How do we un-Eldritch Aziraphale?”

  
  


Crowley chewed his lips for a moment, looking into Aziraphale’s wide, blue, expectant eyes. “ Well, we start by fortifying Aziraphale’s corporation...”

  
  


“What does _that_ mean?” Adam interrupted.

  
  


“Well... it means... making sure he gets plenty of rest... lots of...vitamins? Maybe those Açaí berries? I don’t know! Health... _stuff_...”  
  


Adam blinked. “Well that’s.... much more _boring_ than expected. No exorcisms or blood magic? Not even any scalpels or bone-saws?”

  
  


“Not as step 1... no,” Crowley replied, his eyes now flicking away from Aziraphale, unable to stand the strange mixture of confusion, hope and apprehension. It was too close to his own secret thoughts.   
  


He loved _this_ Angel, _this_ Aziraphale, utterly and uncountably. No question. But, he couldn’t help but wonder about _his_ Angel. _His_ Aziraphale. Was he gone forever, or waiting, just below those mirror- blue eyes ?

  
  


“You don’t know, do you?” Adam asked suspiciously.“You don’t know how to fix this, _at all_...”

  
  


“No!” Crowley replied firmly. “I mean Yes! I don’t NOT know what to do... or at least, where to start... it’s just... _complicated_!”

“Perhaps , if you tell me what you DO know,” Aziraphale suggested, gently. Patient, trusting, hopeful. A stranger and the love of his life.

  
  


Crowley sighed. “Okay... so... _technically_ , you are In Her Grace, so you should be able to heal yourself. But you haven’t, and I think I know why. I’m not sure how good of a look you got, but, after Gabriel... err....removed... some of your... err... soft tissue, he wrapped the exposed bone with wire. And I suspect the wire was formed with hellfire, and that’s why you can’t heal yourself...I think if we get the wire... err... out then your True Form will heal and then we can see where we are with the memory business... changes are you’ll be able to find them yourself. But first we have to... the wire.”

  
  


Aziraphale looked a little pale.

  
  


Adam didn’t. “Right! The wire! That was _gnarly_! So, what do we need to cut hellfire-forged wire? Some sort of hellfire-forged wire-cutter? Where do we get those? Does Hell have Wickes?”

  
  


“Regular wire-cutters will do,” Crowley replied, only looking at Aziraphale. “It’s still _wire_. Just, sort of, poisonous to Angels. The problem, well there are two problems. The first is that it will hurt. A _lot_. A might- cause-you-to- discorporate _lot_.”

“By which you mean, it could kill me,” Aziraphale answered, softly. “I could die.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Crowley replied, immediately. “I mean, it would but... but I’d still find you. I’d search creation for you all over again. And I would find you. I’ll always find you.”

Aziraphale nodded, straightened his shoulders, and smiled. “Alright. You said first problem, which implies a second. What else could go wrong?”

Crowley nodded. “The second problem is, that we will have to get at your true form, which means either manifesting it here, or stopping time. Either way, it will telegraph our position to Gabriel,so on top of everything else, we will have to turn around and fight him off, and, that’s a fight we could very well lose, so...”

  
  


“So, lets have a couple of days to charge up on açaí-berry smoothies and kombucha first?” Adam replied, lifting an eyebrow.

  
  


“So, let’s have a couple of days together, before we possibly die, now that we’ve found each other again,” Aziraphale said, holding his hand out to Crowley.

  
  


“So, it’s _complicated_ ,” Crowley finished with a sigh, and took Aziraphale’s hand.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly softer one today... there’s still _some_ angst, but, it’s my birthday, and I couldn’t bring myself to be TOO evil today...
> 
> (Pacing? _Pish!_ Artistic Integrity? _Tosh!_ Aren’t I past the age where one acknowledges one’s birthday? _Probably!_ )

I’m going for a walk,” Adam announced dramatically, shortly after they’d cleared the breakfast table. “I may be some time!” He shot Crowley in particular a pointed look on his way out the door.

Aziraphale stared after him, confused, three empty mugs dangling from his fingers.

  
  
Crowley however, seemed unconcerned. “All right, Angel. Now, let’s get you convalescing. What sounds good to you. A morning of reading in the garden? Maybe another bubble bath?”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Not another bath, no.” Since the _seeing_ in the mirror he’d avoided the place as much as humanly possible.

_Humanly,_ he mused suddenly. Do Angels even _need_ to relieve themselves? His mouth twisted at the thought, recalling seven years on the streets, of the complicated, embarrassing and quite frequently dangerous business of relieving himself. 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, mentally changing the subject. “What on Earth has got into him?” He caught the insecurity in his own voice and cringed at it. Someone hurrying away from him, a door slamming... it made his heart ache dully. He couldn’t help it.

Crowley turned to him, face softening, eyebrow rising, lips pulsing forward, just a little. “He’s not trying to get away from you, Angel. He’s projecting, and thinks he’s _helping_. He’s assuming we’d want to be constantly crawling all over each other. Mortals, huh? And, as for the phraseology, he’s _18_. He probably heard about Oates for the first time last week, and has been looking for a opportunity since. Please, don’t think he’s rejecting you.”

Aziraphale smiled up at Crowley, feeling, suddenly, very shy. “How do you always seem to know what’s bothering me? What to say?” he asked, slipping a hand into his pocket, and soothing his fingertips on the little bit of paper there.

“Oh, well, I know you very well,” Crowley replied gently. “Several millennia worth of hard won confidences and confessions. And, while I can only imagine how hard it’s been, I am sure you must have been so unhappy, found it so hard, being so achingly alone and rejected, for so long. With no mooring. No connection to the world.”

“Except my little trolley,” Aziraphale answered, his voice high, and silly to his own ears now. Something about the way Crowley was looking at him, something about his warm, gruff tone, was turning Aziraphale’s legs to soup-kitchen jelly.

Crowley laughed, and then Aziraphale’s legs _ENVIED_ the stability and strength of jelly.

“Yes! My word, Angel! What have you done to that poor thing?”

“What have I done to it?” Aziraphale scoffed. “You are the one that shrunk it! And it never used to wheel itself around before!”

“Fair point, fair point,” Crowley replied regarding the little trolley which had indeed started rolling itself slowly over to Aziraphale. “Although I’m not sure that one party trick compares to seven years worth of angelic adoration and unintended miracles. Looks like it wants to be picked up, by the way. And, should we let it outside for a bit? Do you suppose it’s housebroken?”

“I _suppose_ that it’s a trolley!” Aziraphale replied, reaching down to pick it up. In his arms, it felt much less metallic and less angular than it appeared. It was also trembling slightly. “Hush now, hush. You are alright. There, there. _Poor little thing_. It must be so confused.”

“Speaking of projecting,” Crowley interjected. “YOU must be so confused. You are taking to all this very... well. Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not, and, not that you can’t trust me, because you _absolutely can_. But... I tell you all these things, and you trust me. _Believe_ in me. Frankly, I was worried it would take much longer to win your trust, this time around. But instead...”

Aziraphale considered. “Well... we aren’t exactly working from a blank slate... you see the bird...”

“What about your bird?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, she isn’t MY bird. I thought maybe she was your bird. Or Adam’s bird? Well, she knew the way to Gabriel’s shop, so maybe she’s _his_ bird... although, if she is, I shalln’t give her back...What if he hurts her wings, like...”

Crowley held up a finger gently. “Angel, just back up one minute... the bird knew the way to the shop? The bookshop?”

“Err.... yes. But before that, she spread her wings, and I had this.... feeling. Like, I was connected to the power and the beauty of the universe...”

“And, then she lead you to the shop?” Crowley interrupted, seemingly determined to focus on the wrong part of the story.

“Yes,” Aziraphale relented. “And then, we walked and she, sort of, _directed_ us to the bookshop. And... I wasn’t going to stay, but then the car told me that I should stay...”

“The _car_ did!” Crowley interrupted again, this time smiling widely. “You mean _my car_? Oh! She’s a _good_ car, that car. I _love_ that car...”

“Yes, indeed... and, so, I went inside, and then Adam called, and then Gabriel came, and then Adam called again, and then... well... _you_. And, when I saw your wings. I _knew_ that.... I knew that you were _my home_.”

Crowley’s throat made a noise, and Crowley’s arms reached around Aziraphale, and hugged him. 

The trolley wiggled, squished between them. 

Aziraphale let his head fall onto Crowley’s shoulder, and breathe in the scent of his skin, the warmth of spread comfort and peace through his body.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember more, Crowley,” he whispered. “I’m sure that the man... the _angel..._ that you love, is very much more worthy, strong, and beautiful than me. I wish I could...I hope that... I... I want to be home for _you_ , the way you are for me. And, I’m so so sorry, that you’ve been alone, too.”

“Don’t apologise to me!” Crowley said, too quickly and too high and fast... his voice stretched to breaking-point, by threatening tears. “I can’t bear it, if you do. I should have protected you. I should have kept you safe. I thought we were safe, and, I let him take you, and... and.... tear you to pieces, and leave you to die. I can’t... I can’t _bear_ that I let this happen to you!”

Aziraphale was horrified. This poor, beautiful, glorious, _supernova_ of a man, crying for him. That was not to be born. “Crowley, you _looked_ for him... for... for _me,_ I guess. You searched, and you came to my aid, and you _held_ me.”

“That’s not enough.”

  
“That’s _everything_! Everything, Crowley. I know, because I’ve had nobody. I know what having somebody is! And, for it to be _you_! You, with your midnight wings, and your golden eyes, and your hair like the dying sun... I.... Can I touch it?”

“Yes,” Crowley breathed. “I mean, touch what? But, yes....”

“Your hair,” Aziraphale said softly. “I want to know if feels downy, like feathers, or sleek, like satin, or smooth, like copper. I want to know what your skin feels like, in the hollow of your cheek, and, how it feels stretched over your cheekbones. Whether your ear lobes are softer than the inside of your elbow. Whether they taste the same. I want to map the planes of your body into constellations. I want to see how the crinkles by your eye change when at peace, when at ecstasy. And, I know... I _know_ I can’t ask for any of that. That it would be too soon, and too much all at once, and that I’m not even quite the man who has earned it... and that I’ve been damaged. But... but Crowley, can I... _may I_ touch your hair?”

“Yes,” Crowley whispered. “Yes, you _can_ ask. Ask for _anything_ , my love. And yes, you can touch my hair.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the gorgeous birthday wishes. They genuinely made my day! 
> 
> And.... now back to our regularly scheduled body-horror and misery...
> 
> Content Advisory: Severe Injuries and injury treatment

On the morning they’d picked out, Aziraphale woke to the sound of rain. He instinctively pulled in his arms and knees, before realising there was a roof between him and the sky.  
  


The movement half- disturbed the warm figure behind him.  
  


“S’okay Angel,” Crowley murmured, momentarily tightening their embrace, and nuzzling Aziraphale’s hair.  
  


“It’s morning,” Aziraphale replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking.  
  


“Oh...” Crowley now sounded awake.  
  


Aziraphale rolled himself over, to the crook of Crowley’s arm, and indulged himself by nestling into it, indulged himself with the near certainty of acceptance.  
  


“Angel,” Crowley voice reverberated through his chest to Aziraphale’s ear. “Angel... we don’t have to do this. We can... I don’t mind. You are always beautiful to me, and we can, just... get rid of mirrors... find you something to help with the pain. We don’t have to risk...”

  
Aziraphale breathed out a sigh, mostly so he could breathe in again. Breathe in _Crowley_ again. Every breath mattered now. “We _do_ have to... or, _I_ have to, I suppose. I owe it...”  
  


“You don’t owe it to me, Angel,” Crowley whispered. “You don’t owe it to me, to risk this. Because you COULD discorporate... and, if you do, then _he_ could be waiting for you. _Will_ be... or one of the others. And yes, I _will_ come for you. I will come for you, breathing fire.But... they could still... you don’t owe me this.”  
  


“I was going to say I owe it to myself,” Aziraphale replied, softly. “Or rather, I owe it to Aziraphale. Because, he saved the world, if you and your lionizing is to be believed, and, if he is anything like me at all, I’m certain that he would fight for this. For his true self. For his memories. Especially for...for his memories of _you_. So, we do this... so, I’ll be brave.”  
  


Crowley sniffed, suspiciously. “Where the hell have my sunglasses got to? And... and _after_ breakfast.... let me make you breakfast.”  
  


“Best not, I think,” Aziraphale replied. “It’s traditional not to eat before surgery, I think. And,  if it hurts as much as you say, I can’t imagine I’ll hang on to breakfast long, in any case. My heart is in this, Crowley, but, I can’t attest to the allegiance of my stomach.”  
  


“We’ll go for a walk, then... that could be good for you. You know. Your constitution. They used to call them constitutionals...”  
  


“Crowley...”  
  


“We could walk to the ocean. Fortifying sea air. That’s traditional, too. I think. People fortifying themselves with the sea air.”  
  


“Crowley...”  
  


Crowley sighed. “I’m _frightened_ , Angel...”  
  


“Me too,” Aziraphale admitted. “But, less than I would be without you. Are you ready?”  
  


“No. One more minute,” Crowley sighed. “Just one more minute, holding you.”  
  


Thirty more “one more minutes later”, they walked down the stairs.  
  


Adam was waiting for them. He’d built a fire in the fireplace. There were two pairs of wire cutters. Several bottles of saline solution, intended for contact lenses. A plastic drop-sheet.  
  


“A drop-cloth, Adam? A drop-cloth?” Crowley raged, when he saw it. “Because, we must protect the rugs and floorboards?! That’s our priority here?!”  
  


Adam shrugged. “I’m sorry. Seemed... _prudent_. None of us are going to feel like scrubbing the floor, after this. No matter theerr.... outcome. Did what I could about bolstering the wards, too, although, I’m sure you should touch them up. And I built a fire for you to... convert. When you are ready.”  
  


“A plastic fucking drop-cloth!?!”  
  


Aziraphale laced his fingers into Crowley’s. “It’s alright, Crowley dear. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though,” Crowley muttered. “I suppose I can get behind the drop-cloth idea. But it should, at least, be silk woven by blind monks or something. That thing isn’t even... biodegradable!”  
  


Adam groaned. “Seriously?! You are going wonky already? Over the drop-cloth? Given what we’ve got to do? And then, maybe fight off a megalomaniacal arch-Angel? We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”

  
  


“It’s going to be fine, Adam,” Aziraphale soothed. “You’ve done a fantasticjob setting up. Thank you, by the way.”  
  


Adam shrugged. “Figured you’d want a bit more time together, is all.”  
  


“Thank you,” Aziraphale repeated. “Although, what did you mean about converting the fire?”  
  


“Hell-fire,” Crowley muttered. “Gabriel kryptonite. The _only_ Gabriel kryptonite. Only down side is that it’s Aziraphale kryptonite, as well.”  
  


“I’ll steer clear,” Aziraphale reassured him. “It won’t hurt Adam though, will it?”  
  


Crowley shook his head. “He’s literal hell-spawn. He’ll be fine. You though.... you _have to_ stay clear. In a straight choice between going near that fire, and literally anything else, you pick literally anything else, Aziraphale. I can still save you if your corporation dies, and I can save me if my corporation dies, but if you touch that fire... I can’t. We’ll both be done.”  
  


“I’ll steer clear,” Aziraphale repeated, firmly.  
  


Crowley nodded, sniffed, and hung his head for a moment, and then stared at the fire.  
  


It.... _changed_.  
  


“Holy shit, look at that,” Adam said. “It’s.... _beautiful_.”

  
  


“It’s where you were born,” Crowley whispered to him. “You rose from that like Aphrodite from sea foam.”  
  


“If, by sea-foam, you mean severed god testicles chucked in the ocean,” Adam smirked. “Is that how I was ma... oh no, wait, don’t tell me...”

  
  


“Hard to be edgy, when the family jewels in question, are in the family?” Crowley smirked back.  
  


Aziraphale sighed. “The pair of you are making me nostalgic for the decorum and sanity of the drop-cloth argument. Now, are we doing this thing, or not?”  


He slipped off his robe, and white, flannel undershirt, and stepped onto the drop-cloth, keeping an eye on the hell-fire, lest it make any sudden movements. He tightened his hand around Crowley’s note from the shop, slipped from the robes pocket, hidden in his fist.  
  


Adam carefully picked up the wire cutters and held one out to Crowley.

  
Crowley hesitated, but then took them. Then, he turned to Aziraphale. He lifted his hand to Aziraphale’s cheek. “Remember Angel. If this goes badly...I am coming for you. I _WILL_ come for you.”

  
  


Aziraphale nodded.

  
  


Time slowed.

  
  


Time stopped.

  
  


Aziraphale watched the edges of Crowley’s beautiful wing,hovering in his peripheral vision, as the snipping began. The _tugging_.

  
  


For a few moments, the pain was in his wings and was bearable.

Then, the pain was in his wings and _incomprehensible_.  


  
  
Then, the pain was in his chest and blinding, his scream choked and strangled by foam in his throat.  
  


Blinding pain.

  
  


Then, blinding darkness.

  
  


Then, blinding light.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Advisory: Graphic description of injuries, of medical procedures and of violence.

“Why did you bring the raven?” Adam asked, as time stopped.

“Why did I bring _YOU_?” Crowley snapped. “Hurry up and get cutting!”

Crowley actually wasn’t sure how the bird had managed to follow them into the little bubble universe, but ignoring the bird had been a decent policy, so far, and he was sticking with it. He had enough on his plate.

He couldn’t hold them here in the bubble universe, outside of proper time and space, for long, and once forced to manifest them in the real universe, they would have very likely have Gabriel to deal with.

And, there was the matter of Aziraphale’s corporeal heart. The damage from starvation. The _irreversible_ damage from starvation.

... and, Aziraphale had been in London, the whole time. _Starving_ in London, the whole time. The first place Crowley should have looked. _Did look_ , but... not hard enough, apparently.

Crowley growled at Adam for cover, but truly as growling at himself. Shutting those thoughts down. This would be hard enough without crying.

Adam was already snipping, little pieces of wire starting to fall by his feet.

If Crowley had his druthers, he would salvage every fragment of that evil wire, pack it around C4, and turn it into supersonic shrapnel blast, directed squarely at Gabriel’s stupid face.

But, there was no time, _no time_. He had to focus.  
  
  


Focus on the beautiful, ravaged wings.

Gabriel had started by twisting Aziraphale’s wings into a wing-lock tie, catching the wing-elbows around each other, trapping them behind Aziraphale’s back, as though Crowley’s Angel were a pigeon, to be tossed to a gun-dog.

Then, Gabriel had stripped back angelic flesh, the torn edges of which were still leaking golden ichor. And then the wire. The wire threaded, between radius and ulnar, and wing to wing, then penetrating between the bones of the fore-wings and tightened cruelly, a line of evil twists.

Multiple separate loops, each tighter and deeper than the last.

  
  


Crowley snipped and unwound, the sharp metal edges bruising and stabbing his skin.

  
  


Adam was working too. Working quickly, but weeping openly, his sardonic affect of indifference failing, fully, at last.

  
  


Crowley was near the end of his time-holding endurance, when he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, heard _The Bentley_ ’s horn blasting in his mind.

Gabriel was pounding at the wards of the cottage and trying to pry his way into the collapsing bubble universe.

Crowley felt time starting to slide forward, through his grip.

  
  


“He’s here Adam,” Crowley shouted in warning. “He’ll be there when we land.”

  
  


Adam opened his mouth in reply, but instead shouted in shock, as the wing he was working on suddenly sagged downward, like a palm frond dislodged from a tree, the remaining tissue all but tearing under the weight.

Aziraphale screamed bloodlessly and clutched at his chest, Adam frantically caught at the falling wing, and Crowley lost his grip on time.

“CPR,” Crowley shouted to Adam, as they tumbled back into the main universe, “Do NOT STOP”, before unfurling his wings as a barrier and turning to face Gabriel.

  
  


Gabriel, standing wide legged and ready, across the room, spread his own wings wider. And he smirked. “Hello, Crawly. Have you been admiring my work? I do hope you’ll forgive me for not doing the same for you, but sadly, you aren’t my jurisdiction.”

  
  


“Zira isn’t yours anymore either, Gabriel,” Crowley spat. “Leave him alone. Leave _us_ alone. Final warning.”

  
  


The raven screamed in apparent agreement.

  
  


Gabriel chucked. “Of course he’s mine, Crawly. He’s my masterpiece. A work of art. Or, he _was_ until you vandalized it. But, no matter. Once I’ve crushed you to dust, I’ll just have to string him back up again.”

  
  


Crowley glared. Behind him he heard a soft regular thudding and Adam tunelessly muttering a Bee Gees song. The only thing keeping Aziraphale from being sucked to heaven, into the gleaming city of the enemy. 

  
He had to kill Gabriel, and he had to do it fast, before Adam’s CPR became ineffective. And that wouldn’t be long. Certainly not the hours it would take to wear down Gabriel’s strength. He needed a plan that ended this fast.

He stared at the fireplace and the hell-fire roared to life.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows at the roaring plume. “Aziraphale was too much of a coward to burn me. And, if he couldn’t manage it, how does a filthy fallen thing like you expect to? I’m the Angel Fucking Gabriel. And you are corruption in the skin of a snake.”

Gabriel began to swing his arm, and as he swung, and a heavy golden cudgel gradually materialized in his hand. The end solidified just a moment after its arch passed through Crowley’s skull. A moment too late to discorporate him, sending him on a detour to Hell when he was desperately needed here. Gabriel smiled like he was teasing a cat.

  
Crowley thought quickly. That thing was _heavy_. Almost as heavy as Gabriel’s corporation. He dodged two blows, watching the effect on Gabriel’s center of gravity. He would only get one chance.

  
  


As Gabriel collected momentum for another swing, Crowley prepared himself, dodged, aimed high, and plowed his full weight into Gabriel’s upper chest while he was still off balance, pushing him toward the fireplace.

  
  


He knew, the moment they connected, that it would not be enough. That he’d _failed_...

  
  


...except....

...except that Crowley had not been the only being to lurch forward.

  
  


The Raven had swooped forward as well, its beak and claws straining for Gabriel’s eyes.

  
  


Gabriel stumbled off balance, slapping furiously at the bird. But, only slightly off balance.

A single stabilizing step could have saved him.

  
  


Would have saved him...  
  


...except that Gabriels stumbling leg didn’t have room for that step.

It didn’t have room, because, there was something _there_ , something that _hadn’t been there_ a moment before.

  
  


A miniature shopping trolley.

  
A shopping trolley that, while small, was packed with hundreds of pounds of items. Items collected by an Angel, over seven years, to help the hungry and desperate of London, with no real hope of love in return.

  
  


And, even though that shopping trolley was small, it chose, in that moment, to be _heavy_.

  
  


To use the full-weight of the accumulated love to stop the leg of a pernicious arch-angel.

  
  


An arch-angel who made the trolley’s owner cry.

  
  


And, by tripping that arch-angel, the trolley sent him straight into a roaring, blue pillar of flame.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Advisory: Discussion of injuries, and discorporation, brief mention of self discorporation. A bit wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey. A bit sad.

“Is that it? Is Gabriel...gone?” Adam asked, already sounding a little breathless from the effort of compressing Aziraphale’s chest.  
  


Crowley blinked for a moment, staring into the heart of the roaring fire. The smell of burnt feathers lingered heavily in the air. Gabriel _was_ gone. “Yeah, that will do it. Unless the Almighty, herself, chooses to get involved, and that has _not_ been her form of late.”  
  


“Oh, _good_ ,” Adam wheezed, smiling. A smile that quickly faltered. “Crowley... what happens when I stop?”  
  


“Well,” Crowley began, drawing the word out to give himself a moment, not allowing his voice to crack over the syllable. In his mind he stood in a burning bookshop that never burned. “When you stop...Aziraphale’s corporation will die. And he’ll be, sort of, catapulted...upstairs. And... I’ll figure out a way to go up there and get him.”  
  


“Or, die trying, right?” Adam whispered. “Gabriel might be gone, but you said that there were more of these arch-angel types. Will they try to hurt Aziraphale when he gets there?”  
  


“I don’t know,” Crowley said softly. His voice was _not_ cracking, he refused to allow it. “But... they tend to flock together so... probably. I’ll just have to be fast. And hope. You see Adam, once one eliminates the unacceptable, then whatever remains is what one _has_ to do. And, losing Aziraphale is _NOT_ acceptable to me. So... I’ll save him. That’s all there is to it.”

Adam inhaled with a shudder. “Yeah... that’s... that’s what I thought. Is there anything we can do? Anything to increase the odds?”

Crowley was still half in the bookshop. He’d fallen to his knees now. Burning pages fluttered around him, disappearing into flame. “I should try to get the rest of the wire out of his wings. Before we stop the CPR. If your arms will hold out. If we _can_ get the wire out, it will give Aziraphale a chance to heal. Give him a fighting chance up there, alone. Until I _get there_ , I mean. Until I reach him.”  
  


_Until I slay the Cherubim at the gate... Until I tear down the Hordes of Heaven with my bare hands..._

“Wire! Gotcha!” Adam nodded, looking determined. “I’m good on chest compressions, for a bit longer.” Adam turned his attention back to Aziraphale, and the semi-tuneful muttering, keeping him in time, began again.  
  


Crowley reached, gently, into the surrounding aether, and pulled Aziraphale’s wings into the universe-proper. He laid them out, carefully, across the floor. The wing-tips spanned well beyond the stupid drop-cloth, to Crowley’s childish, mutinous joy.  
  


Aziraphale’s wings had always been so _beautiful_. Crowley’s first shelter. And, the wings were _trying_. Already, here and there, areas they’d managed to clear of wire were taking on a healing, rose-gold glow.  


Crowley resumed work on the closer wing, now moving as quickly as possible. Determined to spend every remaining second healing Aziraphale.  


It was difficult to force himself, to cut, to unravel, to tug. A _trial_. All his instincts, and his heart besides, wanted to spend these last moments together very differently. To spend it stroking Aziraphale’s hair, kissing his brow,trying to whisper millennia of love into his ear. It took all Crowley’s willpower to keep his fingers poking and twisting, instead. 

“Swap?” Adam wheezed, as Crowley finished one wing and looked to the other, the wing that had sagged, sickeningly, in the bubble.

Crowley nodded curtly, and took Adam’s position. If he’d hoped that this chest-crushing would be less brutal, and more consoling than the wire cutting, he was quickly disabused of the notion. It was so much harder to ignore Aziraphale’s face from this position. The golden curls mussed and clinging. The bluish tinge to his eyelids. To his lips.  
  


Crowley finally let himself cry.  
  


Adam, to his credit, immediately dived into clearing the other wing of the hateful wire, barely taking a moment to shake his exhausted arms and shoulders. “This is all my fault,” Adam sobbed.  
  


Crowley startled “What? _Your_ fault? Adam, you didn’t do this to him. _Gabriel_ did.”  
  


“No, I mean his heart,” Adam sniffed, unwrapping a long piece of wire. Parts of this wing were now also beginning to glow.  
  


“It’s not your fault that humans let him starve, Adam,” Crowley sighed. “I’d like to think you wouldn’t have.”  
  


“That’s not really what I meant,” Adam murmured, “I... _oh_! That should be it, I think. No more wire.”  
  


And, indeed the wing was glowing, slowly healing... except for one place.  
  


Adam followed Crowley’s gaze, and palpated the area gently. “No wire. I’m _certain_. But...I think.... I think there’s a part of the bone...missing...” he whispered. “Do you suppose Gabriel took it?”  
  


“Possibly,” Crowley replied, still rhythmically compressing Aziraphale’s chest, not letting himself dwell on this new information. On what it meant. On how it must have _hurt_. “Gabriel might have taken it. Bone magic is _old_ magic. _Profane_. His lot are supposed to be above that sort of thing. But... yeah... Hell, maybe the fucker just wanted a fucking souvenir. And, if Gabriel had it on him, we obliterated it in the fire.”

“Oh,” Adam said, a little helplessly. “So, what do we do? I don’t think the wing can support its own weight, without the bone. If he’s going to have to fight...”

  
  


“Right....” Crowley replied, leadenly, catching an accidental taste of his own tears.  


  
  


He visualized Aziraphale arriving, in a battle for his life, in Heaven, abruptly missing a wing, a piece of his soul.  


  
  


Then, he imagined Aziraphale, dragging a bloody wing behind him, while trying to fight off Michael, Champion of Heaven. Or Sandalphon, Scourge of Gomorrah. Or Uriel, Bane of the Nephilim. Or all fucking three.

Crowley could only wonder that his own despair hadn’t killed him yet. Fucking _design flaw_ , it was, expecting Crowley to survive a decision like this. He had _words_ for the _manager_. 

“Well, I guess we’ve got to...I guess, there is _no choice,_ but to...” Crowley trailed off, because there was a dark movement of feathers, in the corner of his eye. “What is that bloody _bird_ doing _now_?”

  
The raven had hopped over to Aziraphale’s slack hand. She was attempting to pull free a rolled up piece of paper, from his palm, with her beak.  
  


“Shoo, bird,” Adam said, now tearful as well, waving his arms at the raven. “Let him _BE_.”  
  


The raven croaked, dismissively...  


...And, Crowley suddenly realised something.

  
_He’d been ignoring the raven the whole time._  


But, he hadn’t been doing it because the raven wasn’t _important_. He’d been doing it because, somehow, deep down, he’d realised that the raven... _knew what she was DOING._  
  


“Adam, leave her! Let her do it.”  
  


The raven successfully extracted the little roll of paper. She hopped over to the one remaining defect in Aziraphale’s beautiful, glowing wings, and, gently, placed the note inside with her beak, replacing the missing bone. Then, she lay down, on top of the wing, nestling her head into nearby glowing feathers...

And...a moment later, there was no longer a broken wing AND, a raven. Just the immaculate, divine lines of an angel wing.

“Oh!” Adam whispered, softly. “Well... that’s _that_ , I guess.”  
  


_The raven had known what she was doing._

“ _Good_ bird.” Crowley whispered, and bit his lip. It was time to stop. Time to let Aziraphale go.  


The demon wondered, vaguely, if it would be faster to drive to London, to storm heaven via escalator, or to discorporate himself, and then escape hell.  


Either way, how little chance he had. A sob escaped him.

_Zira_...

  
  
  
Futile or not, it was time to fight. For Aziraphale. For love. Time to die.

  
“Crowley, I’m _so_ sorry,” Adam said, again.  


“Told you, kid. Not your fault,” Crowley replied, gruffly, still holding on, still compressing Aziraphale’s chest.

_Could he go on forever? Until the earth crumbled and heaven fell? Until the two of them were the last of creation?_

“It _is_ , though,” Adam insisted. “My fault. I _made_ that heart. At the airfield. I should have _made_ it _better_. I didn’t know. I didn’t know this would happen, yet. And, now the universe doesn’t _listen_ any more. Not properly...” he trailed off.

Crowley swallowed “Adam... you weren’t to know....”  
  


Adam sprung to his feet. “No wait! That’s it. Crowley! _Shut_ _up,_ for a second. If I _knew_ what was going to happen, while the universe was still listening to me, I could _make_ his heart _better_. “

“But...you _didn’t_ know.”  
  


“But, I do now! And I can _tell_ a past myself. A myself from back when the universe was still listening. If I do, then _that_ myself will be able to tell the myself that made the heart. The universe will let him _make it better_.”  
  


“But, that’s nonsen....”

  
  


“Crowley, the bubbles! The bubble universes. They are _outside of time_ , and so, logically they CAN’T be at different times. Which must mean they are at the _same time._ And that means, if I’m in a bubble, I’m at the same time as all bubble-Adams. I can reach out to the me from the first bubble! The one at the Airfield, when you stopped time. You know, before Satan showed up!” 

“Yes... I do remember the _occasion_ , but...”

”And a First-Bubble Adam can reach back to the Adam that made the heart, because that First-Bubble Adam still has proper powers! It will _work_!”

  
  


“Adam, it _won’t_ work,” Crowley replied, miserably. “None of this _works_ that way...”

Adam rolled his eyes. “You’ve been saying that I ‘ _don’t work that way’,_ all this time! And, you haven’t been right once! I _could_ find Aziraphale, I _could_ travel by satellite phone, I _could_ enter the shop-bubble without you meaning to take me. You were _wrong every time_.”  
  


“So?”  
  


“So, just be wrong, _one more time_ , and I can save Aziraphale!”

“But... but, it doesn’t work like... oh, _FUCK IT_!” Crowley roared. “Why the Hell not? Let’s try it. Let me be wrong, just one more time! What do you need me to do?”  
  


“Stop time again,” Adam said. “I do the rest.”

“I won’t be able to hold it for long,” Crowley said. “I’ve already used up...”

“Just for a second,” Adam said “That’s all I’ll need. One second. Ready? One....”  


  
“Two....” Crowley whispered.

  
  


_Three_.


	18. Chapter 18

The light was lovely, if a bit bright. Warm white and brilliant. And then it got better, because it had Crowley in it.

  
  


Crowley _smiling_.   
  


Lovely, handsome Crowley, Aziraphale mused. Who turned up in French prisons and soon to be bombed churches. Who wheedled and slithered. Who drove too fast and who loved. The man at his side. The man _on_ his side. Beaming down at him, as if he was everything in the universe, instead of a fussy old Angel with a dusty bookshop and argyle socks.

Aziraphale smiled back. How could he do otherwise?

“There you are, Angel,” Crowley said softly. “I found you.”  
  


“Yes... err... here I am!” Aziraphale agreed. He felt a little giddy. He couldn’t quite catch up, with the swirl of memory.  He’d been an angel, a man, a monster and possibly, a _bird_? 

  
  


_Exceedingly_ strange.

  
  


Still, Crowley was here and Crowley was smiling, so things were all right.

“Don’t sit up too quickly, my love,” Crowley cooed, placing a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s chest. “You’ve been asleep for a _while_.”  
  


Aziraphale tried too late to hide a smile. “ _My love_ , is it? That’s _new_...”  
  


“I’m not wasting more time,” Crowley answered, softly. “We’ve a truth to deal with, and it’s that you are a part of me. And, that’s final. Written into the universe, until the dying pulse of the very last star. I love you.”

“...’ _very last star’,_ indeed,” Aziraphale wittered, wiggling, his own treacherous smile only widening. “How long have you been thinking up that one, you dear, wily thing?”

“Well... you have been asleep, _a while_ , as I said,” Crowley replied, a throaty chuckle warming his voice.

“And, justhow long is a while?” Aziraphale asked, slowly sitting himself up. “Is Adam still here?”

  
  


“He left a quite a bit ago. Met up with Warlock. They’ve turned all _bourgie_. Gone backpacking to Angkor Wat, or some nonsense. Here, they’ve sent a picture.”  
  


Aziraphale peered at the photo on Crowley’s phone screen. Two men he’d known as children looked back at him, with goofy smiles and what they probably hoped were ironic eyebrow tilts. It was indeedwhat was now called Angkor Wat in the background. Aziraphale had known children, who’d grown to men, who had laid its stones. So _different,_ then.

  
  


“Well, they’ve not gone bald and grey, at least, so, it’s not like I’ve thrown one of your Victorian sleep tantrums,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Not _that_ bad, no,” Crowley agreed easily, reaching out and stroking Aziraphale’s hair.

  
  


Aziraphale leaned into the caress- the _thrill_ of it, the _joy_ \- without a thought. As though, this was why he even had hair, and why Crowley had hands. For this very sensation. For this moment and all moments like it. For a million moments like it.

Had it _been_ like this before? With Crowley? He might have always wished it so... but... _had it_ , actually?  
  


He sought Crowley’s eyes and found patient expectation there. Crowley was waiting for something.  
  


Memories, scattered and loose-leaf, slowly filed themselves in Aziraphale’s mind. “My wings were damaged,” he said, not quite able to... “Gabriel....!”

“You’re okay, now, Angel,” Crowley interrupted, gently but firmly. “You can look and see, if you like. I think you’ll feel... _disquieted_ until you do.”

  
  


Crowley indicated a large mirror, by the side of this bed. Aziraphale  had the sense that Crowley had placed the mirror there for exactly this purpose.

Aziraphale DID feel disquieted, he realised, as he carefully folded his wings out of the ether. For a moment, he felt positively _frightened_. But he needn’t had been. His wings were strong, and brilliant, just as he’d remembered them.  
  


_Almost_.  
  


There was a patch on the right wing, roughly star-shaped, where, instead of creamy white, the feathers were a deep, glossy black.

“There’s a decent chance they’ll grow back white when you do a moult,” Crowley observed.

Aziraphale twitched the wing, experimentally. “I rather hope they _stay_ , actually. Lends me an air of intrigue. You can’t be the only intriguing one! _That’s_ hardly fair.”  
  


“Then, I hope they stay too,” Crowley replied, immediately. “As long as you are happy. I did wonder if, maybe, you’d...”  
  


“ _You_ make me happy, Crowley,” Aziraphale answered firmly. “Now, I’m slightly foggy on the details, I must admit. But I do remember that you found me in the darkness, and held me. And _saved_ me. And, I do remember that I love you.”

“Oh _good_ ,” Crowley replied, sounding irresistibly pleased. “We’ve got the basics sorted, then! The rest doesn’t matter... oh... except _one_ thing. Your shopping trolley may have slayed Gabriel, _a bit_.”

“Oh, my trolley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, wide eyed, scanning the room, furious at himself for forgetting it. “Where is the poor thing?”

  
  


Crowley blinked, bemused. “It’s over there.”

Aziraphale looked, confused. “ _That_ is  a baby miniature-goat.”

“Is it?” Crowley turned around, with interest. “Oh, hey! You’re right! It’s _never_ been a goat, before. It’s been a cat, and a rabbit, once or twice, and we’ve had a few pot-bellied pigs, but not a goat. _Most days_ it’s a trolley. Poor thing. Existence is tricky, and it’s doing its best.”

Now awake, the little trolley bleated, and tried to roll over to Aziraphale, and, failing that, due to lack of wheels, _wobbled_ over to Aziraphale. It then took advantage of its goaty legs, to climb up on the bed, and took advantage of its goaty head, to butt Aziraphale’s hand, until he stroked its soft, slightly-silvery curls. 

Aziraphale smiled at the sweet little thing. “Hello, my dear. Now, you must tell me, how does one slay an arch-angel ‘ _a bit_ ’ ?”

Crowley answered for the trolley. “Well... actually... it slayed Gabriel _more than a bit_. Rather a lot, in fact. Indeed.... _entirely_. You’ll have to forgive the ‘a bit’. I was trying to ease you into the situation, because...”

“Because one doesn’t spring reentry on a person,” Aziraphale replied, still caressing the goat with one hand, but reaching for Crowley with the other. “We’ll be alright. If they come, we’ll stand together. And for now, I don’t want to think about that. I want to be held, again, and at last, by the love of my life.”

  
  


“Exactly!” Crowley replied, taking his hand. “And, yes. Hug, very soon. _Decades_ of hug. But first, I want you to eat something. I just... yeah...I just _need_ to feed you, basically? I really _need_ for you to go with me on this.”

  
  


“Happily,” Aziraphale replied.

  
  


Crowley ducked out, returning, a few moments later, with a white, blue-rimmed plate covered with a mountain of strawberries. “So, I haven’t been _completely_ idle, while you’ve been napping. I decided to work on some heirloom strawberry varieties. You told me, once, how much you loved the ones in Eden, and so, I’ve been trying to recreate something similar.”  
  


“How _sacrilegious_!” Aziraphale purred.

“Now, don’t get excited, Angel, because I’m not there yet. But, I do want you to try these. I’m thinking of naming this variety the Aziraphale strawberry.”

  
  


“Really?”

  
  


“Because it’s plump, _utterly_ gorgeous, mostly sweet, but just tart enough to be worth eating.”

Aziraphale laughed, with a strange delight, and felt himself blush. 

Crowley picked up a strawberry and held it up to Aziraphale’s flushed cheek. “Oh and look at that! Just the perfect shade of red. Well, there you are, Eden be damned! I’ve _already_ created the perfect strawberry. Now, I need you to eat them. All. _Immediately_.”

“How about we share?”

“Acceptable...” Crowley declared, after pretending to think about it. “But, I’m getting my own plate, so you can’t fool me into eating most of them...”

“Not _quite_ what I meant,” Aziraphale replied, smiling softly at his demon. His hero. His _Crowley_. “I mean, we shall share each and every one of them. And every strawberry from now on. Half yours. Half mine. _Forever_.”  
  


In answer, Crowley split a strawberry with his thumb, and popped one strawberry half into Aziraphale’s mouth.

The flavour of the juice trickled to Aziraphale’s tongue and it _was!  
  
_

_Perfect_.  
  


Then, Crowley kissed him, his mouth flavoured by his own share, and _that_ was more perfect, still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely people! Thank you for reading and supporting this story. I don’t think it would have been finished without all the lovely comments and other shows of support throughout from you all.
> 
> Very much hope it was worth your time, because I’ve loved sharing it.
> 
> Take care and be well!


End file.
